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VILLIERS 

HIS    FIVE    DECADES    OF    ADVENTURE 
VOL.   I 


THE    AUTHOR    IN    1894 


VILLIERS 

His   Five   Decades 
of  Adventure 

By 
FREDERIC  VILLIERS 

War  Artist  and  Correspondent 


VOLUME    I 


Harper  Sf  Brothers  Publishers 
New  York  and  London 


Villiers:  His  Five  Decades  of  Adventure 


Copyright,  1020,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  November,  1920 

K-V 


V' 


To 

Capt.  R.  E.  POWELL,  M.D.,  of  Montreal, 
Major  A.  K.  HAYWOOD,  M.D.  M.C.,  and  the 

Nursing  Staff  of  the  Montreal  General  Hospital, 
I  dedicate  this  book  of  adventure  in  grateful  re- 
membrance of  their  care  and  solicitude  for  my 
welfare  during  my  prolonged  visit  to  their  excellent 
Hotel    Dieu 


654858 


FOREWORD 

r"FO  those  who  happen  to  pick  up  this  volume  and 
*  do  me  the  honor  of  reading  it  I  wish  to  state 
that  they  will  find  no  fiction  in  its  pages.  Every 
incident  I  have  set  down  can  be  corroborated  by 
comrades,  "many  still  living,"  who  have  shared  my 
vicissitudes.  There  is  nothing  in  this  book,  as  the 
old  adage  goes,  "to  make  the  dead  turn  in  their 
graves." 

Frederic  Villiers. 

August,  1919. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Foreword vii 

I.  First  Memories i 

The  passing  of  the  Iron  Duke — A  hero  of  the  Indian 
mutiny — The  " Kearsarge"  and  "Alabama" — Student 
days — Royal  Academy  and  other  schools — The  first 
adventure — Paris  at  the  end  of  the  Commune — Scenes 
in  the  streets — Prussian  brutality — A  remarkable 
prophecy — Fire  and  smoke  bring  me  in  touch  with  the 
"Graphic" — My  first  assignment. 

II.  Serbia  Under  Milan 15 

King  and  Queen  of  the  Tziganes — Our  genial  consul 
— A  prince  born  to  trouble — /  meet  Archibald  Forbes 
— Carping  critics— The  hoof  of  the  Turkish  horse — My 
baptism  of  fire — A  retreat  in  a  storm — Winning  my 
spurs — The  lurid  glow  over  the  Maritza  Valley — I  wit- 
ness many  skirmishes — /  assist  surgeons  in  the  field 
and  at  the  base — Still  another  retreat — One  of  our  fra- 
ternity killed. 

III.  The  Devil  and  the  Deep  Sea       41 

/  am  ordered  to  India,  but  am  shunted  at  Vienna  for 
Turkey — /  meet  Valentine  Baker  for  the  first  time — / 
start  on  an  adventurous  journey — /  succor  a  man  much 
against  my  will  and  am  obliged  to  beard  the  lion  in  his 
den — /  become  acquainted  with  a  great  American, 
Januaris  Aloysius  MacGhan — He  recommended  me  to 
go  to  Batac — /  find  a  ghastly  state  of  affairs  there — / 
bring  back  three  trophies  and  run  three  narrow  risks, 
but  I  come  out  on  top. 

IV.  A  Job  in  a  Grocery  Store 70 

/  become  a  commercial  traveler  and  visit  Rumania — 
/  am  engaged  as  a  shopman  and  cross  the  frozen  Pruth 
— Am  terrified  by  the  presence  of  the  Great  White  Tsar — 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  recover  from  the  shock  and  make  sketches  of  his  army 
and  return  safely  with  probably  the  most  interesting 
budget  I  ever  collected  for  my  paper — /  receive  a  birth- 
day gift  from  the  Russian  ambassador  at  the  Court  of 
St.  James's — /  am  present  at  the  firing  of  the  first  shot. 

V.  The  Battle  of  Plevna 81 

Feasting  with  the  Tsarevitch,  not  wisely,  but  too  well, 
I  return  under  guard — My  pony  faces  his  first  fire — 
Forbes  and  I  start  to  find  the  Russian  army — A  cold 
reception — Fasting  and  fighting — We  find  the  former 
less  exciting  than  the  latter — A  Franco-Russian  ac- 
quaintance—  The  Russian  advance  on  Plevna — The 
morning  mist — The  battle  panorama — My  pony  is 
restless — Our  high  hopes  are  wrecked — The  retreat — / 
am  given  up  for  lost — My  race  for  the  mail — /  return 
intact,  but  am  taken  for  a  spook — Soldiers  and  artists — 
A  prince  for  a  guide. 

VI.  The  Black  Death 115 

Ten  battles  in  two  years  and  as  many  skirmishes — 
A  record  for  a  young  man — Black  Death  stalks  the 
Rumanian  Plains — The  Red  Cross  nurse  and  her 
wretched  patients — A  princely  Samaritan — /  stay  with 
Skobeleff — What  nations  fight  for — /  ride  his  white 
charger  and  dye  it  magenta — MacGhan  succumbs — / 
introduce  two  great  opponents  to  each  other. 

VII.  Eastertide  in  Palestine       134 

My  pilgrimage — /  am  shot  at  by  the  way — The  rock 
of  Andromeda — Richard  Caeur  de  Lion — As  in  the 
days  of  the  Apostles — The  sepulcher — Maundy  Thurs- 
day— Holy  fire — The  Wall  of  Wailing,  and  many 
other  things — My  first  love — /  follow  her  to  Jericho — 
And  lose  her  in  Constantinople. 

VIII.  Hill  Fighting  Fierce  and  Bloody 152 

The  beginning  of  the  trouble — Off  to  India — A  mem- 
orable ride — The  mystery  camp — /  am  toasted — /  guide 
the  guides  with  my  luminous  pony — Where  women  wear 
the  breeches — Cavagnari — Back  to  India  with  the  treaty 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

— Through  the  hills — Across  the  plains — The  dark 
bungalows  and  the  daks — An  enjoyable  "sudden  death" 
— The  first  Earl  Lytton  and  his  court — /  leave  for 
"Down  Under" 

IX.  Down  Under 177 

Off  to  the  Antipodes — Dances  and  pillow-fights  by  the 
way — Ceylon — Centuries-old  tortoise — Sensitive  plants 
— Sydney,  the  glory  of  Australasia — Gayety,  fun,  and 
frolic — New  Zealand — Her  urbane  governor — Maoris 
— An  impending  rising — The  King  Country — Pink 
and  white  terraces — A  seismic  upheaval — Hawaii — 
San  Francisco. 

X.  Gotham 184 

New  York  in  the  '8o's — /  meet  an  old  friend  of  Plevna 
days,  and  many  eminent  people — General  Sherman, 
Thomas  Nasi,  Clavering,  Gunter,  Sir  H.  M.  Stanley, 
Max  O'Rell,  General  Horace  Porter,  Joseph  Jefferson, 
Bill  Nye,  Mrs.  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  Richard  Mans- 
field, and  Edwin  Booth — A  night  with  Edison  in  his 
laooratory  at  Menlo  Park — His  first  filament — /  sketch 
the  inventor  at  work — /  lecture  at  West  Point. 

XI.  In  Touch  with  Royalty 207 

At  Mar  Lodge — /  am  introduced  to  a  learned  Duke, 
Prince  Leopold — A  chat  with  the  Prince  of  Wales,  the 
late  Edward  VII — /  sketch  him  in  Highland  costume 
— /  don  one  of  his  bonnets — A  royal  deer  stalk — A  few 
of  Lord  Fife's  guests — /  am  invited  by  the  Prince  to 
stay  at  Abergeldie  Castle — /  meet  the  Princess,  the 
present  Queen  Mother — Her  charm  and  beauty — Queen 
Victoria  and  her  daughters  at  a  play  in  tne  coach  house 
of  the  castle — A  day  in  the  Queen's  busy  life  on  Dee-side 
— An  irascible  Field  Marshal  of  the  old  school. 

XII.  The  Little  Cloud  in  the  Near  East  ....  232 

The  Alexandrian  riots — Arabi  Pasha — The  British 
fleet  arrives — The  "Swell  of  the  Ocean" — Lord  Charles 
Beresford — I amhis  guest  onboard H .M .S.  "Condor" — 
/  am  somewhat  responsible  for  the  bombardment  of  the 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

forts — The  "Condor"  is  under  fire  and  acquits  herself 
well — The  water  picnic — "Well  done,  Charley!" — The 
famous  gunboat  puts  to  sea — The  cable  ship — A  jour- 
nalistic triumph — The  burning  harem. 

XIII.  City  of  Lurid  Light 247 

The  landing — Cameron  and  I  penetrate  to  the  square 
— Gruesome  discovery — Our  wary  movements — We 
sight  the  American  contingent — A  welcome  patrol — We 
serve  in  the  first  fight  ashore — Dead  Horse  Picket — A 
scrimmage  among  the  fishes — My  broken-eared  charger. 

XIV.  A  Ghostly  March 261 

/  am  invited  to  dine  with  the  Guards — My  vanished 
host — Ghostly  relics — The  bivouac — Mysterious  water- 
wagon — The  midnight  scare — The  silent  army — Tel-el- 
Kebir — Cold  steel — The  charge  of  the  Irish  and  Scots — 
The  pipers  in  the  trenches — My  lost  pony  turns  up. 

XV.  The  Crowning  of  a  Tsar 273 

Arabi  and  Tewfik — The  lure  of  Shepherds — The 
journalistic  spider  on  the  stoop — What  comes  into  its 
meshes — Two  great  explorers  and  a  pro-consul — 
"House  of  Commons"  and  a  pair  of  dukes — Our  fight- 
ing Prince  of  Wales — Belated  honors — /  am  made 
Chevalier — Invited  by  the  Tsar  to  his  coronation — My 
bluff — A  red-coated  general — /  am  made  prisoner — My 
durance  vile. 

XVI.  A  Mummy  Army 291 

/  meet  Col.  Fred  Burnaby — A  quick  journey — Ad- 
ventures on  the  Red  Sea  littoral — A  ghastly  sight — /  am 
nearly  placed  horse-de-combat — Hadendowahs  at  home 
— Baker  Pasha  again — The  charge  of  the  10th  Hussars 
— Rum  and  asparagus — Down  with  fever. 

XVII.  The  Fuzzy  Wuzzy 307 

A  brush  with  Osman  Digna — A  friend  in  need — A 
welcome  ration — The  sleeping  army — The  awakening 
— Rallying  groups — My  uncertain  horse — The  fight 
in  Kipling's  "The  Light  That  Failed" — The  "Fuzzies" 
break  the  British  square — My  friendly  Highlander. 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE   AUTHOR    IN    1894 Frontispiece 

My  Cart  in  the  Balkan  War Facing  p.  20 

Serbian  Refugees  in  the  First  Balkan  War  .     .       "        36 
Winter  Scene  in  the  First  Balkan  War   .    .    .       "  ■'    116 


DECADE 
i 870-1  880 


VILLIERS 

HIS    FIVE   DECADES    OF    ADVENTURE 

Chapter  I 
i 870-1 880 

FIRST   MEMORIES 

The  passing  of  the  Iron  Duke — A  hero  0}  the  Indian  mutiny — The  "  Kear- 
sarge"  and  "Alabama" — Student  days— Royal  Academy  and  other 
schools — The  first  adventure — Paris  at  the  end  of  the  Commune — 
Scenes  in  the  streets — Prussian  brutality — A  remarkable  prophecy — 
Fire  and  smoke  bring  me  in  touch  with  the  "Graphic" — My  first 
assignment. 

I  CAME  into  the  world  during  the  chill  hour  just 
before  dawn  on  the  23d  of  April,  1851,  a  most 
appropriate  time  and  a  day  befitting  my  subsequent 
career  of  war  artist  and  correspondent,  for  it  was  the 
festal  day  of  the  fighting  patron  saint  of  both  Merry 
England  and  Holy  Russia,  St.  George;  and  the  time 
was  the  hour  when  bivouacs  begin  to  stir  and  fresh 
logs  are  flung  on  the  waning  camp-fires  to  make  the 
kettles  sing.  It  was,  too,  the  first  year  of  a  dec- 
ade fraught  with  "alarums,  excursions,  and  bloody 
conflicts"  in  which  all  Europe  and  the  Near  and 

1 


riLLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

Far  East  became  involved.  Italy,  Austria,  Russia, 
France,  Turkey,  India,  China,  and  England  were  the 
dogs  of  war,  yelping,  snarling,  tearing,  and  rending 
one  another  during  my  early  childhood. 

The  first  thing  I  can  remember  was  an  event  of. 
distinctly  military  nature,  which  happened  in  my 
second  year.  My  father,  one  dull  September  after- 
noon, recounted  to  my  dear  mother,  as  I  sat  on  her 
lap,  the  obsequies  of  the  Iron  Duke,  which  solemn 
and  majestic  pageant  he  had  witnessed  that  morning 
at  St.  Paul's  Cathedral. 

My  parents  told  me  later  on  that,  though  I  seemed 
deeply  interested  in  the  passing  of  the  great  Welling- 
ton, my  artistic  senses  were  the  first  really  to  be 
aroused,  for  while  I  was  still  in  my  swaddling-clothes 
I  distinctly  cooed  at  the  famous  statue  of  the  tinted 
Venus  when  they  took  me  with  them  to  the  first 
international  exhibition  in  the  history  of  the  world, 
at  Hyde  Park. 

But  the  belligerent  instinct  was  observed  in  me  at 
the  early  age  of  eight,  when  I  fought  with  another 
boy  (and  I  am  proud  to  say  a  bigger  boy)  who  would 
insist  upon  obstructing  my  view  of  the  home-coming 
of  that  gallant  soldier,  Sir  Colin  Campbell,  after  the 
Indian  mutiny.  A  broken  finger  of  my  left  hand 
still  testifies  to  the  fierceness  of  that  encounter. 

So  keen  was  I  at  soldiering  that  at  the  age  of  ten 
I  became  a  cadet  in  a  volunteer  corps,  bit  my 
cartridge  like  a  man,  poured  in  the  powder,  and 
rammed  the  bullet  home  in  my  little  Brown  Bess, 

2 


FIRST  MEMORIES 

and  then,  with  a  cap  on  its  nipple,  snapped  the 
hammer,  and  mostly  missed  the  target. 

Many  a  day  on  the  road  to  school  my  attention 
was  attracted  by  pictures  in  the  shop-windows 
where  candies  and  fruit  were  on  sale.  The  prints 
were  not  of  the  highest  standard  of  art  and  were  sold 
either  plain  for  a  penny  or  twopence  colored.  They 
represented  the  characters  and  mise  en  scene  for  toy 
theaters,  much  in  vogue  with  boys  of  the  later 
Victorian  era,  and  illustrated  the  dramas  of  "The 
Red  Rover,"  "The  Miller  and  His  Men,"  and 
"Three-fingered  Jack."  To  these  theatrical  prints 
I  probably  owe  my  first  artistic  inspiration.  Many 
joyous  hours  have  I  spent  in  coloring  the  skies  of 
the  "penny  plain"  with  cobalt  blue  at  a  penny  a 
cake,  and  putting  brilliant  scarlet  on  the  jacket  or 
tinsel  jewels  on  the  sword-belt  of  the  Red  Rover. 

Time  wore  on,  but  my  taste  for  art  did  not  wear 
out;  I  developed  a  more  ambitious  phase.  I  used 
to  draw  regiments  of  soldiers,  mostly  in  acute  profile 
with  fixed  bayonets,  on  my  school  slate.  And  when  I 
was  sent  to  college  in  the  north  of  France  I  started 
a  magazine,  doing  most  of  the  illustrations  myself. 
It  was  during  a  summer  holiday  that  upon  arriving  in 
Dover  I  was,  much  to  my  delight,  taken  for  an 
American  midshipmite.  My  French  college  uni- 
form of  dark  blue  with  silver  stars  on  cuffs  and  col- 
lar led  me  to  be  taken  for  a  Yank  by  a  detachment 
of  the  Black  Watch,  on  guard  at  the  castle,  who 
smartly  saluted  me  as  I  walked  past  them  to  visit 

3 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

the  historic  stronghold.  I  did  not  make  the  sentries 
wise  to  their  mistake,  but  took  the  compliment  with 
a  sang-froid  of  which  the  United  States  navy  might 
well  have  been  proud. 

My  boyish  picture-making  developed  into  such  a 
craze  that  at  the  age  of  seventeen  I  resolved  to  go  in 
for  it  in  earnest.  I  studied  at  the  British  Museum, 
at  the  art-schools  of  South  Kensington,  and  at  many 
night  classes,  and  at  last  succeeded  in  getting  what 
was  called  the  "bone,"  a  circular  piece  of  ivory 
that  admitted  one  to  the  goal  of  all  ambitious 
students,  the  schools  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  Arts. 
My  work  in  the  antique  class  was  tiresome  and  un- 
interesting, my  subject  was  the  discobolus.  I  had 
to  draw  the  bones  and  muscles  and  then  make  a 
chalk  drawing  of  the  plaster  cast,  which  had  to  be 
painfully  stippled  to  a  high  point  of  finish. 

I  was  therefore  glad  of  some  relief  from  this  monot- 
onous, dreary  business.  It  came  one  morning  when 
a  fellow  student  approached  me  with  a  proposition 
for  working  on  a  panoroma  of  the  Franco-Prussian 
War,  now  drawing  to  a  close.  I  was  to  go  to  Paris 
and  pick  up  material  for  the  great  picture,  to  leave  by 
that  night's  mail!  I  was  delighted  at  the  prospect 
of  the  journey,  but  what  about  a  passport,  which 
was  absolutely  necessary  during  the  war?  There 
was  no  time  for  me  to  procure  one,  so  my  friend 
suggested  getting  one  belonging  to  some  other  fellow. 
This  was  done  and,  presto!  I  was  practically  no  longer 
Frederic  Villiers,  but  Edward  Chevalier,  for  luckily 

4 


FIRST  MEMORIES 

in  those  days  there  were  no  photographs  to  identify 
one.  It  was  only  when  in  the  train  nearing  Dover 
that  the  danger  of  the  situation  dawned  on  me. 
I  was  traveling  under  a  false  name  and  about  to 
enter  a  country  in  the  throes  of  revolution — for  the 
French  government  troops  were  now  fighting  the 
Communists.  Would  the  authorities  across  the 
Channel  listen  to  my  explanations  if  I  were  found 
out,  I  wondered.  Afterward,  indeed,  I  learned  that 
I  would  have  had  short  shrift  and  a  short  range, 
with  the  ignominy  of  being  shot  as  a  spy. 

Anyway,  my  principle  aim  in  life  has  been  to 
"get  there,"  and  this  little  adventure  was  really  the 
keynote  to  all  the  subsequent  success  in  my  vagrant 
life.  Only  once  was  I  in  real  jeopardy  of  being 
found  out,  and  that  was  on  my  arrival  in  Calais, 
when  passports  were  collected  and  examined.  My 
name  was  called  out  three  times  before  I  suddenly 
recollected  that  I  was  now  Edward  Chevalier,  so  I 
came  forward  in  a  semidazed  condition,  rubbing  my 
eyes  as  if  I  had  been  dozing,  and  the  official  gruffly 
handed  me  the  precious  document. 

The  Laissez  aller  had  been  duly  vised  and  was  bon 
for  the  French  capital. 

Paris  when  I  arrived  had  been  "stewing  in  its  own 
juice,"  as  the  truculent  blood-and-iron  chancellor, 
Bismarck,  had  brutally  willed  it.  The  result  was  a 
very  sorry  sight.  All  the  quarters  familiar  to  the 
tourist  had  sufFered  terribly.  The  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde and  the  end  of  the  rue  Royale  were  pitted 

5 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

with  shell-holes  where  Communist  batteries  had 
wrought  havoc,  for  guns  of  the  Versailles  faction, 
placed  in  front  of  the  Corps  Legislatif  across  the 
Seine,  had  been  playing  at  bowls  with  them  just 
before  I  arrived.  The  debris  of  a  Communist  em- 
placement at  the  end  of  the  rue  de  Rivoli  had  not 
yet  been  cleared  away,  and  the  shattered  glass  and 
plaster  of  the  houses  and  shops  facing  the  gardens 
of  the  Tuileries  away  down  to  the  Hotel  Meurice 
showed  how  its  guns  had  drawn  the  fire  of  the 
Versailles  infantry.  There  had  also  been  a  Com- 
munist battery  at  the  end  of  the  rue  St.-Honore, 
which  had  blazed  away  right  down  the  rue  du 
Faubourg  St.-Honore  at  the  government  troops 
slowly  advancing  and  seeking  the  cover  of  the 
buildings. 

The  church  of  Notre  Dame  de  Lorette  was  the 
center  of  much  fighting.  Thence  down  the  rue  Cha- 
teau Dun  toward  the  Boulevard  Haussmann  kiosks, 
lamp-posts  and  trees  were  torn,  smashed  and  scat- 
tered, presenting  a  scene  of  utter  desolation.  The 
Madeleine,  avenue  de  l'Opera,  rue  de  la  Paix,  and 
the  Place  Vendome  all  had  suffered  by  shell  or 
bullet.  Here  in  the  historic  square,  just  opposite 
where  the  Ritz  now  stands,  Napoleon's  column  was 
lying  on  the  ground,  broken  in  three  pieces,  round 
which  was  a  cordon  of  police  to  keep  the  crowd  away. 
This  was  the  only  place  where  the  public  showed 
any  interest  or  concern;  elsewhere  the  citizens  were 
going  about  their  business  as  if  their  city  had  never 

6 


FIRST  MEMORIES 

been  marred.  Even  the  lovely  palace  of  the  Tuiler- 
ies,  still  smoldering  and  smoking — the  most  wicked, 
senseless  destruction  of  all — did  not  seem  to  disturb 
their  equanimity. 

One  corner  of  a  certain  "God's  acre,"  the  famous 
cemetery  of  Pere  Lachaise,  might  better  have  been 
called  the  Devil's  own,  for  it  had  been  devoted  to  the 
execution  of  hundreds  of  the  unfortunate  Com- 
munards. The  earth  and  chloride  of  lime  only 
lightly  covered  the  wretched  bodies.  Here  and 
there  an  arm,  a  leg,  or  a  foot  gave  evidence  of  the 
jumble  of  the  dead  as  they  fell  pell-mell  under  the 
volleys  of  the  firing-squad.  The  wall  against  which 
they  had  stood  or  knelt  was  blotched  and  smeared 
with  the  blood  of  the  victims  and  fretted  by  the  lead 
of  the  executioners.  I  hardly  know  why,  I  suppose 
because  he  was  a  brave  leader  and  a  soldier  of 
considerable  ability,  but  I  was  sincerely  glad  that 
Dombrowski,  the  Communist  general,  died  early  in 
the  game,  fighting  in  a  hand-to-hand  scuffle,  and  was 
not  lying  there  higgledy-piggledy  with  the  gruesome 
lot  in  that  awful,  evil-smelling  trench  at  the  foot  of 
that  blood-drenched  wall. 

I  returned  to  England  without  being  molested  and 
with  some  interesting  material.  The  panorama 
people  were  satisfied  and  I  was  heartily  glad  to  re- 
sume my  own  name  once  more.  This  experience 
served  to  give  me  an  early  insight  into  the  brutal 
and  merciless  nature  of  the  Germans.  After  having 
raided,    ravished    and    harassed    the    fair    land    of 

7 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

France  from  the  Rhine  to  the  Seine,  they  were  now 
gloating  over  the  internecine  troubles  of  its  capital, 
round  which  they  held  tight  a  ring  of  iron. 

I  cannot  refrain  from  quoting  here  a  few  prophetic 
lines  from  a  book  by  the  joint  authors  Erkmann  and 
Chatrian,  called  The  Plebiscite,  published  in  the 
'8o's:  "These  Germans  are  the  most  perfect  spies 
in  the  world;  they  come  into  the  world  to  spy,  as 
birds  do  to  thieve;  it  is  part  of  their  nature.  Let  the 
Americans  and  all  people  who  are  kind  enough  to 
receive  them  think  of  this.  I  am  not  inventing,  I  am 
not  saying  a  word  too  much.  We  (France)  are  an 
example;  let  the  world  profit  by  it." 

Then,  referring  to  the  indifference  of  England  and 
her  unpreparedness  for  any  belligerent  eventuality: 
"I  also  believe  that  every  fault  brings  its  punish- 
ment; the  English  will  suffer  for  their  faults,  as  we 
are  doing  for  ours;  and  the  Germans,  after  having 
terrified  the  world  with  their  ambition,  will  one  day 
be  made  to  rue  their  cruelty,  their  hypocrisy,  and 
their  robberies.     God  is  just!" 

Finally,  after  describing  the  pageant  of  the  in- 
vaders at  the  crowning  of  the  old  King  of  Prussia 
as  German  Emperor  at  Versailles,  the  book  con- 
tinues: "Alas!  notwithstanding  all  this,  these  people 
will  die,  and  in  a  hundred  years  will  be  recognized 
as  barbarians;  their  names  will  be  inscribed  on  the 
rolls  of  the  plagues  of  the  human  race,  and  there 
they  will  remain  to  the  end  of  time." 

I   was   still  working   at   the   plaster   cast   in   the 


FIRST  MEMORIES 

Academy  schools  when  an  incident  occurred  that, 
for  a  time,  broke  the  monotony  of  my  task. 

The  Alexandra  Palace  at  Muswell  Hill  had  just 
been  opened  by  royalty  and  was  creating  consider- 
able attention.  I  resolved  to  visit  the  show  and 
see  if  I  could  pick  up  a  few  sketches  for  the  illus- 
trated press.  In  those  days  the  kodak  was  not 
in  existence  and  photography  was  still  in  its  in- 
fancy. The  pen  and  pencil  were,  therefore,  the  only 
mediums  to  convey  to  the  public  pictures  of  current 
events. 

I  was  at  the  exhibition  early,  and  as  very  few 
visitors  had  arrived  I  spent  some  time  in  chatting 
with  a  flower  girl  who,  in  picturesque  costume,  was 
in  charge  of  a  stall  under  the  great  dome.  I  hap- 
pened to  look  up  at  the  frescoes  ornamenting  its 
curves  when  I  noticed  a  flame  burst  out,  no  bigger 
than  my  hand,  not  far  from  a  point  where  workmen 
were  giving  the  last  touches.  Smoke  at  once  began 
filling  the  dome.  The  girl  cried  out,  "My  God!  the 
place  is  on  fire!"  I  told  her  not  to  scare  the  visitors, 
who  were  now  arriving,  but  to  hurry  to  the  fire-sta- 
tion. Presently  she  returned  with  a  few  men,  bring- 
ing a  couple  of  water  tanks,  a  hose  and  a  hand  pump. 
The  appliance  did  not  amount  to  more  than  a  glori- 
fied water  squirt  and  could  not  reach  within  a  hun- 
dred feet  of  the  flames,  which  were  now  steadily 
climbing  up,  involving  the  whole  of  the  arch  with 
dense  smoke.  I  first  thought  to  make  a  sketch,  but 
quickly  changed  my  mind,  for  I  knew  that  a  fine 

9 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

loan  collection  of  modern  paintings  was  on  exhibi- 
tion in  the  main  gallery.  I  rushed  into  the  grounds, 
collected  about  a  dozen  gardeners  and  laborers,  and 
placed  before  them  the  proposition  of  saving  the 
pictures.  They  became  enthusiastic  and  followed 
me  to  a  man. 

No  time  was  to  be  lost;  the  fire  was  gaining  by 
leaps  and  bounds.  We  ran  into  the  picture  gallery, 
stripped  the  paintings  of  their  frames,  and  then 
hurried  to  the  nearest  windows  and  dropped  them 
into  the  hands  of  men  outside,  who  piled  them  up 
on  the  grass,  but  were  obliged  to  shift  them  from 
time  to  time  as  the  heat  of  the  burning  building 
threatened  to  scorch  the  pigments. 

Just  in  time  we  arrived  at  the  last  batch  of  pic- 
tures, which  we  practically  snatched  from  the  de- 
vouring flames.  These  had  to  be  removed  by  another 
route,  for  the  windows  through  which  the  others 
had  been  saved  were  now  vomiting  fire.  We  were 
halfway  down  a  corridor  leading  to  a  lower  door 
when  there  came  a  crash  like  thunder — the  dome 
had  fallen  in.  "Down  on  your  bellies!"  I  shouted 
to  the  men;  "keep  your  mouths  close  to  the  floor, 
push  the  pictures  forward  on  their  backs."  A  black 
billow  of  smoke  now  swirled  through  the  corridor, 
nearly  choking  the  life  out  of  us. 

But  my  men  stuck  to  the  game  and  every  one  of 
the  works  of  art  was  saved.  Many  of  the  rescuers, 
quite  overcome  by  the  smoke,  had  to  be  dragged 
by  their  fellows  to  the  patch  of  lawn  on  which  the 

10 


FIRST  MEMORIES 

pictures  had  been  collected,  and  there  they  lay, 
gulping  in  the  fresh  air.  We  were  pretty  well  done, 
and  all  dying  for  a  drink.  Every  drop  of  water  had 
been  let  loose  on  the  fire,  so  I  hunted  around  for 
liquid  and  came  across  several  cases  of  wine  outside 
the  cellars  of  the  demolished  refreshment  room,  one 
of  which  we  eventually  succeeded  in  dragging  to  our 
rendezvous.  It  contained  Moet  &  Chandon.  To  my 
gentle  readers  of  to-day  the  name  of  this  firm  may 
not  be  known,  but  in  the  old  days  it  was  familiar  as 
that  of  the  makers  of  a  brand  of  noble  and  generous 
sparkling  tipple  at  Epernay  in  the  champagne  dis- 
trict of  sunny  France. 

Feeling  deep  gratitude  toward  my  dauntless  crew 
for  saving  a  valuable  collection  of  paintings  to  the 
nation,  I  told  them  to  seize  a  bottle  apiece.  The 
group  of  smoke-grimed  men,  with  fat  quarts  in  their 
fists,  surrounded  by  landscapes,  sea  pieces  and  mer- 
maids, made  a  sight  to  see  as  they  quaffed  the 
sparkling  liquid  with  evident  gusto.  Some  eventually 
dropped  off  and  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just  and  weary 
until  one  of  the  palace  guards  came  across  the  peace- 
ful scene  and  tried  to  break  up  the  happy  party  by 
arresting  my  heroes  for  looting  the  wine. 

I  pointed  out  to  him  that  after  performing  such 
arduous  duty  the  men  deserved  to  quench  their 
thirst  in  the  very  best;  but  he  was  not  at  all  sym- 
pathetic and  we  could  not  very  well  enthuse  him, 
for  there  was  not  a  drop  of  liquor  left!    Anyway,  I 

took  on  the  responsibility,  and  my  volunteers  were 

ii 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

freed.  The  caterers  to  the  palace  later  sent  me 
quite  a  large  bill — which  I  refused  to  pay.  But 
they  never  troubled  me  with  another,  for  I  be- 
lieve the  palace  authorities  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  pictures  were  worth  at  least  that  case  of 
wine. 

The  calamity  to  the  Alexandra  Palace  was,  how- 
ever, anything  but  that  to  me,  for  I  made  several 
sketches  of  the  dramatic  event  and  sent  them  to 
the  weekly  Graphic,  which,  thanks  to  my  rapid  work, 
was  able  to  publish  them  in  the  current  week's 
edition.  This  incident  brought  me  an  introduction 
to  the  editor  of  that  paper,  for  which  I  was  destined 
later  on  to  become  special  artist  and  travel  the  whole 
world  over.  It  is  a  coincidence  worthy  of  note  that 
my  first  sketches  which  appeared  in  any  illustrated 
paper  were  of  fire  and  smoke;  for  half  a  century 
thereafter  fire  and  smoke,  though  of  a  slightly  dif- 
ferent character,  have  been  the  "local  color"  of  the 
principal  subjects  to  fill  my  sketchbooks. 

However,  my  sedentary  work  at  the  schools  was 
the  principal  factor  in  causing  me  to  break  away 
from  the  Royal  Academy.  In  the  early  summer  of 
1876  I  was  suffering  terribly  from  indigestion.  One 
afternoon,  while  looking  up  material  in  the  British 
Museum,  I  was  attacked  with  so  bad  a  fit  of  dyspep- 
tic melancholia  that  I  resolved  to  try  to  walk  it  off. 

Making  my  way  toward  Holborn,  I  noticed  a 
crowd  around  a  poster  of  an  evening  paper.  Elbow- 
ing my  way  through  the  little  mob,  I  discovered  that 

12 


FIRST  MEMORIES 

the  cause  of  this  sensation  was  a  large  caption  an- 
nouncing that  Prince  Milan  of  Serbia  had  declared 
war  against  Turkey. 

That  little  Christian  kingdom  had  at  last  resolved 
to  act  as  champion  for  its  oppressed  neighbors,  the 
Bulgarians,  suffering  under  the  Turkish  yoke,  and 
had  declared  war  against  the  great  Moslem  power. 
There  was  much  excitement  throughout  Europe  over 
this  little  storm  cloud  in  the  East,  for  it  portended 
a  hurricane  that  might  do  considerable  damage  to 
more  than  one  continental  Power. 

"Ah!"  thought  I.  "Here's  an  opportunity  for 
me  to  rid  myself,  in  the  noise  and  excitement  of 
battle,  of  this  dyspepsia  which  has  been  my  bug- 
bear for  months." 

I  hurried  back  to  the  Museum  and  wrote  to  the 
editor  of  the  weekly  Graphic,  offering  my  services 
for  the  coming  campaign.  After  the  letter  was 
posted  I  passed  a  restless  night,  but  early  the  next 
morning  I  received  a  telegram  from  Mr.  William 
Thomas,  the  manager,  asking  me  to  call  upon  him. 
As  I  entered  the  room  he  came  at  once  to  the  point: 

"Can  you  speak  French  or  German?"  he  asked. 

"I  can  get  along  fairly  well  with  French." 

"That  will  do.    When  can  you  go?" 
At  once. 

"Then  please  start  by  this  evening's  mail." 

A  short  interview,  but  a  very  sweet  one  to  me. 

I  left  my  dear  mother  in  tears  at  Charing  Cross 
Station,  and  with  a  bag  of  sovereigns  in  my  pocket 

13 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

and  a  letter  from  my  editor  to  Mr.  Archibald  Forbes, 
the  eminent  correspondent  of  the  London  Daily 
News,  I  was  off  to  the  wars  within  eighteen  hours 
of  making  my  resolve,  and  I  fancied  myself  the 
luckiest  and  happiest  of  mortals. 


Chapter  II 

SERBIA    UNDER   MILAN 

King  and  Queen  of  the  Tziganes — Our  genial  consul — A  prince  born 
to  trouble — /  meet  Archibald  Forbes — Carping  critics — The  hoof  of 
the  Turkish  horse — My  baptism  of  fire — A  retreat  in  a  storm — Winning 
■my  spurs — The  lurid  glow  over  the  Maritza  Valley — /  witness  many 
skirmishes — /  assist  surgeons  in  the  field  and  at  the  base — Still  another 
retreat — One  of  our  fraternity  killed. 

WHEN  I  arrived  in  Belgrade,  in  the  summer  of 
1876,  the  sounds  of  war  reverberated  through 
the  streets  of  the  ancient  Serbian  capital.  There 
was  heard  on  all  sides  the  ringing  noise  of  the  smith's 
hammer,  together  with  the  rolling  of  gun  limbers 
over  rough  stones,  the  whir  of  the  grindstones  as 
knives  and  yataghans  were  sharpened  and  pointed, 
and  the  tramp,  tramp  of  the  marching  troops.  My 
first  thought  was  to  find  Archibald  Forbes,  who  was 
already  en  route  to  the  front,  for  I  felt  that  if  I  met 
that  splendid  fellow  he  would  tell  me  how  to  set 
about  becoming  a  war  artist  at  once.  Was  he  not 
the  hero  I  had  worshiped  since  a  boy,  to  me  the  cen- 
tral figure  of  Sedan,  Gravelotte,  and  Le  Bourget? 
I  added  to  my  outfit  riding  boots,  spurs  and  a  mod- 
erate-sized bulldog  revolver  to  prove  myself  in  his 
VOL.  1.— 2  15 


VILLIERS;  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

eyes,  directly  he  saw  me,  a  determined  young  fellow 
out  for  adventure. 

I  reported  at  once  to  Mr.  William  White,  the 
British  consul,  to  ascertain  Forbes's  whereabouts. 
He  was  a  bluff,  generous-hearted  Englishman  who 
befriended  me  in  many  ways.  He  was  good  enough 
to  procure  me  an  entree  to  the  cathedral  of  Belgrade, 
to  see  the  christening  of  the  baby  prince  who  later 
became  King  Alexander  and  was  eventually  mur- 
dered in  his  capital  with  Draga,  his  queen.  That 
unfortunate  prince  was  born  to  trouble,  for  his 
country  was  already  in  the  throes  of  bloody  war 
and  the  joyous  clangor  of  the  bells  in  honor  of  his 
birth,  merrily  ringing  for  miles  round  the  old  city, 
struck  me  as  being  tragically  incongruous  with  the 
ominous  rumble  of  artillery  wagons  over  the  cobble- 
paved  streets  and  the  incessant  tramp  of  troops. 

An  Italian  called  Lazzaro  and  a  Frenchman  named 
Dick  de  Longlay,  who  were  out  for  Italian  and 
French  newspapers,  were  living  at  my  hotel,  when 
one  evening  we  received  a  letter  addressed  to  us 
brought  by  a  special  messenger — a  cutthroat-looking 
individual  who,  however,  was  courtesy  personified. 
The  note,  which  was  translated  by  our  interpreter, 
ran  as  follows:  "Would  the  Frankish  gentlemen 
honor  the  King  and  Queen  of  the  Tziganes  with  a 
visit,  and  eat  with  them?" 

We  were  glad  of  a  little  adventure,  for  we  were, 
for  the  moment,  kicking  our  heels,  waiting  for  the 
necessary  passes  from  the  War  Office  which  would 

16 


SERBIA   UNDER  MILAN 

permit  us  to  go  to  the  front.  Therefore,  we  set  out 
early  the  next  morning  on  horseback  for  the  gypsy 
encampment.  The  Tziganes  wished  that  out  visit 
should  not  be  made  known  to  the  Serbian  authorities, 
and  we  were  for  this  reason  instructed  to  ride  in  a 
certain  direction  till  a  guide  met  us  to  conduct  us 
to  the  camp.  As  a  precautionary  measure  we  car- 
ried our  revolvers,  for  we  had  heard  that  the  gypsies 
of  the  Balkan  Peninsula  were  generally  more  reckless 
and  lawless  than  most  of  their  brethren. 

The  way  lay  across  the  smiling  fields,  radiant  with 
golden  corn,  till  we  came  at  length  to  a  straggling 
sun-baked  village  without  the  slightest  sign  of  any 
inhabitants,  when  suddenly  there  stood  before  us  a 
picturesque-looking  fellow  in  ragged  shirt,  red  sash, 
and  Turkish  trousers,  with  a  fiddle  under  his  arm 
and  a  nasty-looking  long  knife  stuck  in  his  belt. 
He  took  off  his  greasy  astrakhan-fur  cap  and,  with  a 
low  bow,  motioned  us  to  dismount.  The  moment 
our  feet  touched  the  dusty  road  another  figure,  but 
more  in  tatters,  who  seemed  to  have  sprung  from 
nowhere  in  particular,  seized  our  bridles  and  led 
our  horses  behind  us  down  the  deserted  street. 
Soon  we  stopped  at  a  two-story  building,  the  upper 
rooms  of  which  opened  upon  a  balcony.  It  had 
evidently  been  the  schoolhouse  of  the  village.  Our 
guide  looked  impatiently  up  and  down  the  dead- 
white  sun-bleached  road.  There  was  no  sign  of  a 
living  soul  upon  it  besides  ourselves.  Suddenly  a 
shrill   whistle    broke    the    silence    and    from    every 

17 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

house  swarmed  women  and  children.  The  young- 
sters, black  and  stark  as  Nubians,  came  tumbling 
about  us  with  merry  shouts  of  welcome. 

From  the  balcony  of  the  schoolhouse  appeared  a 
man  and  a  woman,  the  latter  in  green-velvet  jacket 
and  rose-colored  silk  skirt,  with  a  garland  of  flowers 
round  her  head.  The  man  wore  a  gold-embroidered, 
light-blue  cloth  tunic,  red  full  Turkish  trousers,  and 
a  deep  band  of  polished  yellow  metal  around  his 
astrakhan  cap.  They  gave  us  a  nod  and  a  smile 
of  welcome.  The  shrill  note  of  the  whistle  was 
heard  once  more,  and  the  crowd  now  quickly  ceased 
their  clamor  and  disappeared  as  mysteriously  as 
they  came.  The  two  on  the  balcony  retired  through 
the  window  and  the  whole  street  was  again  as  deadly 
silent  as  if  a  plague  had  visited  it. 

We  were  now  ushered  through  a  half-closed  door 
into  the  schoolhouse.  Then  we  climbed  up  a  rickety 
stair  and  entered  a  fairly  large  room,  where  we  dis- 
covered the  gayly  dressed  man  and  woman  whom 
we  had  seen  on  the  balcony,  now  seated  on  two  high 
stools.  On  either  side  of  them  stood  a  half  dozen 
fiddlers  who  were  indeed  clad  in  motley.  In  the 
center  of  the  room  was  a  table  on  which  were  loaves 
of  black  bread,  green  pods  of  paprika,  and  jugs  of 
wine.  After  we  had  been  presented  to  the  King 
and  Queen  of  the  Beggars,  for  that  was  their  proud 
title,  chairs  were  placed  for  us  at  the  table,  when, 
with  some  ceremony,  a  large  metal  dish  was  brought 
in  containing  a  bake  of  fowls,  tomatoes,   and   red 

18 


SERBIA   UNDER  MILAN 

paprikas.  While  we  were  eating  this  really  good 
fare  the  fiddlers  retired  to  the  balcony  and  com- 
menced to  play  as  those  wild  Tziganes  alone  can. 
I  shall  hardly  forget  their  wonderful  performance. 
The  whole  incident  of  the  visit  was  charming,  and 
especially  so  was  the  evident  delight  of  the  people 
on  seeing  us  the  guests  of  their  king  and  queen. 
They  were  beggars  all,  and  lived  by  their  fiddling, 
yet  if  we  had  offered  them  any  gratuity  it  would 
have  been  rejected  with  scorn. 

On  our  leaving  there  was  no  further  demonstration 
by  the  people.  The  royal  pair  bowed  us  a  farewell 
from  their  balcony  as  we  trotted  down  the  deserted 
thoroughfare.  Then  they  disappeared.  Soon  our 
guide  left  us  at  the  very  spot  on  which  he  had  picked 
us  up  that  morning. 

Arrived  in  Belgrade,  we  found  there  had  been  a 
hue  and  cry  for  us,  for  the  police  and  the  town  guard, 
always  watching,  had  not  seen  us  leave  the  city. 
By  some  means  only  known  to  those  Tzigane  folk, 
the  police  had  been  completely  baffled,  and,  of  course, 
we  did  not  enlighten  them  on  the  subject  of  our 
visit.  Riding  into  the  gypsies'  village  a  few  days 
afterward,  we  found  no  vestige  of  the  wandering 
fiddlers;  they  had  effaced  themselves  as  completely 
as  though  the  earth  had  swallowed  them  up. 

Shortly  after  this  strange  visit  I  set  forth  by  stage 
wagon  to  the  headquarters  of  the  Serb  army  at 
Paratchin,  where  the  British  consul  had  told  me  I 
should  meet  Forbes.     It  was  market  day  when  the 

19 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

rickety  old  diligence  rumbled  over  trie  cobbles  of 
the  town,  and  the  streets  were  thronged  with  pic- 
turesque peasantry  in  their  white-linen  tunics 
girdled  with  a  red  sash  and  wearing  the  scarlet  fez,  or 
else  fur  bonnets  for  their  headgear.  Not  a  few  trucu- 
lently carried  knives  and  silver-mounted  pistols  in 
their  belts.  Pigs  were  squealing,  cattle  bellowing, 
donkeys  braying,  geese  cackling,  and  in  addition  to 
the  clamor  of  the  people  haggling  over  their  wares, 
was  heard  the  jingle  and  clatter  of  orderlies  hurrying 
hither  and  thither  through  the  throng. 

But  the  most  striking  figure  in  the  whole  of  this 
busy  scene,  sauntering  along,  elbowing  his  way 
through  the  motley  crowd,  was  a  tall,  well-knit  man 
in  knickers  and  jacket  of  homespun  with  tam-o'- 
shanter  bonnet  cocked  over  his  handsome,  sunburnt 
face  and  a  short  cherry-wood  pipe  protruding  from 
beneath  his  tawny  mustache. 

"By  Jove!  this  must  be  the  very  man  I  want  to 
meet,"  I  thought,  as  I  hurried  up  to  him. 

"Mr.  Forbes,  I  believe?" 

I  was  right,  and  at  once  handed  him  my  letter  of 
introduction.  He  quickly  scanned  the  contents,  and 
said,  with  a  genial  smile: 

"You  must  be  tired  and  hungry  after  your  long 
journey.  Come  with  me  to  my  hotel;  I  think  I 
can  get  you  a  substitute  for  a  beefsteak,  and  a 
bottle  of  beer." 

If  we  were  not  friends  on  sight,  the  schnitzel  and 
lager  clinched  it.     Over  that  simple  repast  in  the 

20 


SERBIA   UNDER  MILAN 

Paratchin  hostelry  we  struck  up  a  friendship  which 
was  in  a  short  period  to  be  cemented  by  the  hard- 
ships and  dangers  shared  together  on  many  a  battle- 
field— a  friendship  which  has  been,  perhaps,  one  of 
the  greatest  satisfactions  of  my  vagrant  life. 

That  evening  some  wounded  Bulgarian  fugitives 
sought  safety  within  the  Serbian  lines  and  arrived 
in  town.  The  pitiable  story  of  their  sufferings  was 
wired  to  England  by  Forbes  and  I  sketched  the 
curiously  clad  groups  of  wretched  women  and  chil- 
dren. Forbes,  in  his  message,  good-naturedly  stated 
that  I  had  arrived — that  the  pencil  was  assisting 
the  pen — and  soon  the  public  would  have  pictures 
to  illustrate  what  he  had  written.  Those  simple 
words  in  Forbes's  telegram  established  me  in  the 
eyes  of  my  editor  as  a  worthy  representative  of  the 
Graphic. 

When  the  necessary  permits  to  join  the  forces 
in  the  field  were  granted  us  I  found  that  I  must 
receive  my  baptism  of  fire  with  the  army  of  the 
Ebar,  while  Forbes  was  appointed  to  that  of  the 
river  Timok.  It  was  a  sad  separation  to  me,  for  I 
had  nursed  the  hope  that  it  was  possible  we  might 
campaign  together.  We  parted  one  afternoon  on  a 
white,  dusty  road  running  south  and  east.  Forbes 
was  for  the  east,  and  I  turned  my  horse  southward. 
We  embraced  on  parting,  for  we  might  never  meet 
again,  but  we  vowed  that  if  the  fortunes  of  war 
brought  us  near  each  other  we  would  work  together 
in  future. 

21 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

A  few  miles  along  the  road  I  came  up  with  my 
two  friends  of  the  gypsy  incident.  They  were  both 
bright,  cheery  fellows  and  full  of  good  humor.  De 
Longlay  had  married  an  Englishwoman,  but  in  spite 
of  that  he  was  woefully  ignorant  of  her  mother 
tongue.  He  seemed  to  cherish  his  little  daughter 
and  was  always  humming  one  of  her  nursery  songs, 
"Ze  poor  dog  Tray  everre  faithful,"  and  this  was 
about  the  only  English  he  knew. 

The  Italian,  Lazzaro,  was  a  tall,  delicate  in- 
dividual with  pale,  Semitic  features  and  black  beard, 
wearing  a  dark  suit  that  might  have  served  for  an 
afternoon  tea  party.  His  hands  were  incased  in 
lavender  kid  gloves,  and  he  wore  patent-leather 
shoes  with  white  spats — a  curious  get-up  for  a  cam- 
paign. The  only  kit  he  carried  was  a  black  water- 
proof satchel  which  apparently  contained  more  lav- 
ender gloves,  and  a  silver-mounted  cane.  The 
Frenchman — a  hearty,  florid  type — had  quite  an 
outfit,  and  he  "swapped"  a  pair  of  tan  top-boots 
with  me  for  a  light  waterproof  coat.  The  Italian, 
seeing  some  business  done,  showed  his  Jewish  blood 
by  offering  to  exchange  a  pair  of  his  pretty  gloves 
for  my  binocular,  but  I  politely  refused  to  make  the 
deal. 

He  was  always  talking  about  his  numerous  flir- 
tations and  sighed  particularly  over  the  memory 
of  a  certain  countess  whom  he  had  left  disconsolate 
in  a  villa  outside  Rome.  When  tired  of  recounting 
his  amours  he  would  curse  in  French  whenever  the 

22 


SERBIA   UNDER  MILAN 

jolt  of  the  springless  cart,  in  which  he  was  traveling, 
unshipped  his  black-rimmed  monocle  from  his 
left  eye. 

Both  these  correspondents  were  anxiously  looking 
out  for  evidence  of  hostilities  en  route,  and  they 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  tall  palisades  of 
timber  surrounding  the  homesteads  we  passed  were 
defenses  against  the  roving  bands  of  bloodthirsty 
Bashi-Bazouks  or  other  banditti.  It  was  only  after 
I  saw  a  number  of  pigs,  who  are  almost  as  wild  as 
boars  in  this  country,  snorting  around  with  wooden 
triangular  collars  that  I  could  persuade  them  that 
these  palings  were  erected  to  keep  the  kitchen  gar- 
dens from  being  uprooted.  "Bah!  After  all,"  cried 
Lazzaro,  gesticulating  with  his  gloved  hands,  "they 
are  ze  same,  both  swine,  ze  pork,  and  ze  Turk,  nom 
de  Dieu!"  De  Longlay  then  hummed  "Ze  poor  dog, 
Tray,"  and  the  incident  was  closed. 

My  friends  left  me  at  Caragugivats  to  see  the  base 
hospital!  I  never  met  them  at  the  front.  They 
used  to  get  there  sometimes,  I  believe,  but  mostly 
after  the  excitement  of  the  fray  was  over.  For 
instance,  the  following  year,  when  the  Russians 
fought  their  way  across  the  river  Danube,  I  sent  a 
long  four-page  sketch  of  the  action  to  my  paper. 
On  returning  to  Bucharest  a  few  weeks  later  I  hap- 
pened to  walk  into  Frascati's  restaurant  for  luncheon, 
when  I  saw  my  two  friends  holding  forth  to  a  small 
crowd  over  the  current  number  of  the  Graphic. 
The  Italian  was  pointing  his  immaculately  gloved 

23 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

hand  at  a  part  of  my  drawing.  "Bah!"  he  cried,  as 
he  glared  indignantly  through  his  monocle  at  de 
Longlay,  "That  blazing  house  being  destroyed  by 
the  Russians  was  not  there.  Just  like  these  English 
artists,  nom  de  Dieu!"  I  had  quietly  crept  up  be- 
hind him,  unnoticed.  "You  are  quite  right,  Lazzaro," 
I  said,  "it  was  not  there  when  you  and  de  Longlay 
arrived,  many  days  after  the  fight.  It  was  the  old 
Turkish  custom  house  that  was  stormed  by  the 
Russians  and  burned,  just  as  I  sketched  it,  on  the 
morning  of  the  passage  of  the  Danube." 

De  Longlay  whistled  and  turned  away,  humming 
"Ze  poor  dog  Tray."  The  Italian  flushed  red, 
dropped  his  pane  of  glass,  and  with  a  wry  face,  re- 
placed it,  gasped,  as  if  he  were  about  to  say  some- 
thing, but  thought  better  of  it,  and  quickly  followed 
in  the  wake  of  the  Frenchman,  while  the  small 
crowd  laughed.    I  saw  him  no  more. 

After  parting  with  my  fellow  correspondents  at 
Caragugivats,  I  traveled  for  three  days  by  country 
cart  through  a  sunny  land  with  ripening  Indian 
corn  and  studded  with  picturesque  villages.  The 
porticoes  of  the  cottages  reveled  in  bright  colors  of 
paprika  pods  strung  to  the  eaves.  The  men,  in  their 
long  white  tunics,  with  brilliant  scarlet  skullcaps  and 
belts,  worked  lazily  in  the  fields,  while  their  women- 
kind  sat  spinning  on  the  verandas  of  the  cottages, 
dressed  in  the  pretty  national  costume  of  white 
gowns  embroidered  at  the  breast,  and  aprons  of 
gorgeous  hues.     Their  children,  sunburnt  little  ur- 

24 


SERBIA   UNDER  MILAN 

chins,  almost  nude,  played  about  the  compound,  and 
Serb  porkers  grunted  lazily  about  the  highways  and 
byways. 

But  there  was  a  shadow  behind  all  this  peace  and 
sunshine.  There  was  a  stern  look  on  the  faces  of 
the  men  as  they  occasionally  stopped  in  their  work 
and  gazed  across  the  plains.  For  far  away  over  the 
smiling  fields  a  trailing  cloud  of  lurid  dust  hung  over 
the  main  road  southward  from  early  dawn  to  night- 
fall, which  marked  the  highway  leading  to  death. 

The  first  shots  had  been  exchanged  on  the  fron- 
tier and  bloody  war  had  begun.  As  I  journeyed 
night  and  day  that  cloud  of  dust  steadily  increased, 
beaten  up  by  legions  of  Serbian  reserves  tramping 
to  the  front.  One  afternoon  the  tide  of  this  living, 
ceaseless  stream  swerved  out  of  its  course,  and 
from  the  yellow  cloud  a  line  of  arabas,  creaking  with 
their  springless  gear,  crawled  toward  me  along  the 
sun-baked  road — some  seventy  wagons  yoked  with 
black  buffalo  with  starch-blue  eyes,  plodding  under 
their  burdens  of  whimpering,  groaning  wounded. 
Beneath  rough  awnings  of  grass  matting,  on  litters 
of  straw,  men  lay  writhing  in  agony  or  tossing  in 
the  throes  of  fever,  the  first  fruits  of  war. 

On  arriving  at  Ivanitza,  a  gloriously  picturesque 
old  town,  with  the  river  Ebar  winding  past  its 
quaint  streets,  I  left  my  wagon  at  an  inn  and  hired 
a  horse  to  take  me  up  Mount  Yavor,  which  loomed 
a  purple  height  four  thousand  feet  above  the  town, 
and  on  the  summit  of  which  was  the  Serbian  camp. 

25 


FILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

Toiling  up  the  mount  all  day,  I  arrived  at  sunset, 
and  that  night  I  slept  in  my  boots,  to  be  ready  to 
march  at  dawn,  for  the  Serbians  were  about  to  in- 
vade Turkish  territory  by  advancing  on  the  Moslem 
town  of  Sinitza. 

Rolled  up  in  my  blanket,  I  lay  on  the  edge  of  a 
precipitous  slope  trending  toward  the  Turkish  posi- 
tion. It  was  a  quiet  night  and  the  fragrance  of  the 
pine  trees  around  me  made  me  heavy  with  sleep,  but 
for  hours  I  could  not  close  my  eyes — for  to-morrow 
I  would  see  my  first  battle!  What  would  it  be  like? 
Should  I  ever  return  to  my  dear  ones  at  home? 
The  moon  flooded  the  mountain  and  valley  and  lit 
up  the  bayonets  of  the  ever-vigilant  sentries  as  they 
patrolled  the  depths  of  the  somber  forest  clothing  the 
slopes.  Tired  out  with  watching  the  twinkle  of  the 
bayonets,  I  fell  asleep  at  last. 

I  awoke  with  some  one  shaking  my  shoulder  and 
saying,  in  very  good  English:  "Here's  something 
hot.  We'll  soon  be  at  work,  and  it's  bad  to  start 
on  an  empty — what  you  call — stomacher."  And  a 
good-natured  officer  gave  me  a  steaming  mug  of 
coffee. 

I  sat  up  and  rubbed  my  eyes.  The  gray  dawn  had 
come  and  had  suddenly  changed  the  whole  scene. 
The  slopes  of  the  mountain  were  alive  with  busy 
men  rolling  up  their  overcoats  and  adjusting  their 
accouterments.  Some,  with  rifle  in  hand,  were 
already  trailing  through  the  brushwood  toward  the 

forest  road  crossing  the  summit  of  the  mountain. 

26 


SERBIA   UNDER  MILAN 

Presently  the  blood  rushed  to  my  head  and  every 
nerve  seemed  to  tingle  in  my  body,  as  "Crack! 
Crack!  Crack!"  came  the  sound  of  shots  through 
the  keen  morning  air.  Here  were  rifles  spitting  in 
earnest — no  spurts  of  blank  cartridges!  I  was  in 
for  it  at  last. 

I  hurried  to  where  my  horse  had  been  tethered, 
but  he  was  gone.  There  was  no  time  to  hunt  for 
him,  for  the  battle  had  commenced.  The  crackle 
of  rifles  was  now  incessant,  so  I  ran  toward  the  mov- 
ing infantry,  and,  catching  up  with  them,  marched 
by  the  side  of  the  battalions  for  about  an  hour, 
when  the  men  were  told  to  lie  down.  On  our  im- 
mediate right  earth  had  been  freshly  turned  over, 
and  sticking  out  from  the  emplacement  were  can- 
non. Presently,  some  men  who  had  been  lying 
perdu  sprang  to  their  feet  and  served  the  guns. 
I  was  about  to  sketch  the  quick  action  when  they 
opened  fire,  startling  and  deafening  me  with  their 
simultaneous  crash.  As  far  as  I  could  make  out, 
they  were  aiming  at  nothing  in  particular,  for  the 
morning  was  dull  and  the  smoke  formed  a  perfect 
fog,  long  in  lifting. 

Soon  the  air  was  filled  with  a  curious  rushing  sound, 
like  that  of  a  low-toned  foghorn,  followed  by  a 
terrible  explosion  and  a  yellow  flash  of  fire.  Then 
the  top  of  a  pine  tree  on  our  left  flew  in  splinters. 
The  noise  from  that  mutilated  pine  was  as  if  a 
huge  tuning  fork  had  been  struck,  the  vibration 
making  the  ground  tremble  where  we  stood. 

27 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

The  Turks  were  returning  the  fire  of  our  battery 
and  this  was  their  first  attempt  to  get  the  range. 
For  some  time  the  pines  were  the  only  sufferers; 
therefore  I  was  surprised  to  see  our  gunners  suddenly 
limber  up  and  begin  to  retire.  This  was  done  slowly 
at  first,  then  the  horses  broke  into  a  trot,  and  at 
last,  under  the  lashes  of  their  drivers,  galloped  furi- 
ously toward  the  road  up  which  we  had  advanced. 
I  was  watching  with  astonishment  this  rather — as 
I  thought — premature  movement,  when  my  reverie 
was  broken  by  a  sudden  rush  of  infantry  coming 
through  the  fog  of  cannon  smoke  which  was  now 
lifting  from  the  earth. 

As  these  men  crowded  together  on  entering  the 
forest  road,  one  of  the  enemy's  shells,  instead  of 
striking  the  pines,  burst  right  in  the  midst  of  the 
retreating  crowd.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  my  eyes 
were  opened  to  the  ghastly  realities  of  war.  Before 
the  report  of  that  exploded  shell  had  passed  away 
at  least  half  a  dozen  poor  fellows  lay  writhing,  almost 
torn  to  fragments  with  its  splintered  segments, 
drenching  the  turf  with  blood.  At  the  sight  a  faint- 
ness  crept  over  me  and  for  a  moment  paralysis 
seemed  to  hold  my  limbs.  But  only  for  a  moment, 
for  now  the  air  was  charged  with  a  noise  like  that  of 
the  buzzing  of  mosquitoes  or  the  lash  of  a  fine  whip, 
Whit!  Whit!  Ping!  And  then,  straight  in  front  of 
me,  a  few  feet  above  the  ground,  little  puffs  of 
smoke  floated  upward  like  soap  bubbles.  Behind 
these  puffs  of  smoke,  waving  through  the  scrub  like 

28 


SERBIA   UNDER  MILAN 

poppies  in  a  cornfield,  flashed  the  red  fez  of  the 
Turk. 

There  was  nothing  between  me  and  the  enemy 
but  a  few  bowlders  and  about  a  hundred  yards  of 
space.  "By  Jove!"  I  thought.  "It's  high  time  to 
go,"  and  the  moment  that  idea  flashed  through  me 
the  rapid  manner  in  which  I  put  into  execution  the 
old  adage,  "Discretion  is  the  better  part  of  valor," 
was  truly  wonderful. 

The  Serbian  army  had  been  outflanked  and  was 
in  full  retreat — indeed,  for  a  time  it  seemed  to  me 
to  be  an  utter  rout.  The  forestway  was  crowded 
with  infantry  baggage  wagons,  ambulances,  cavalry, 
and  artillery,  all  hurrying  downward,  like  an  angry 
torrent,  arrested  for  a  moment  here,  then  surging 
up,  breaking  its  way,  cutting  fresh  courses,  spread- 
ing itself  down  the  precipitous  sides  to  the  base 
of  the  mountain  and  thence  out  upon  the  plains 
below. 

When  night  set  in  a  thunderstorm  burst  upon  us, 
and,  as  the  Turks  occupied  the  summit  of  the  over- 
hanging mountain,  we  could  not  distinguish  the  flash 
of  their  guns  from  the  electric  glare  of  the  lightning- 
rifted  clouds.  It  rained  in  torrents.  Several  hundred 
head  of  cattle,  which  had  been  let  loose  from  our 
camp  above,  were  madly  racing  through  the  wood, 
tossing  and  goring  everything  that  came  in  their  way, 
trampling  in  the  slush  and  mire  many  of  the  limping 
wounded  and  cowardly  stragglers.  As  the  retreat 
hurried  on  at  certain  points  of  the  road,  shells  burst 

29 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

above  us,  blocking  the  route  with  the  debris  of 
wrecked  carts  and  mutilated  humanity. 

For  the  first  experience  of  war  this  was  indeed 
passing  through  a  double  ordeal  of  fire  and  water. 
So  when  I  rejoined  Forbes  a  week  later  in  the  be- 
leagured  city  of  Alexinatz,  I  felt  that  I  already  knew 
something  of  campaigning.  On  reaching  that  his- 
toric Serbian  town  I  found  that  there  was  a  warm 
time  in  the  Morava  Valley,  not  only  climatically — 
for  the  summer  was  exceptionally  hot  and  oppres- 
sive— but  with  the  atmosphere  of  battle — burning 
villages  and  blazing  camp  fires. 

After  every  sunset  during  the  last  week  in  August 
a  dull-red  light  flowed  over  the  valley,  which,  mixing 
with  the  rays  of  the  yellow  moon,  colored  the  limpid 
waters  of  the  Morava  with  blood-red  tints.  Each 
day's  bloody  work  added  to  the  night's  lurid  glow, 
for  the  Turks  were  always  victorious  and  destroyed 
everything  that  came  in  their  way  as  they  advanced, 
proving  the  truth  of  the  saying,  "Where  the  hoof 
of  the  Turkish  horse  once  treads  no  blade  of  grass 
ever  grows." 

One  evening  I  watched  the  last  shots  flicker 
against  the  purple  background  of  the  darkening 
hills,  spluttering  in  the  gloaming  like  the  flecks  of 
fire  from  a  flint  and  steel.  The  Turks  were  now  within 
a  few  miles  of  our  camp,  and  the  morrow  portended 
a  warmer  period  still.  Far  into  the  night  the 
stretcher-bearers  were  trailing  over  the  Alexinatz 
bridge  and  up  through  the  winding  streets  with  their 

30 


SERBIA   UNDER   MILAN 

burdens  of  suffering  humanity.  Archibald  Forbes 
and  I  would  spend  our  evenings  during  this  anxious 
time  by  trying  to  give  aid  to  the  patient  sufferers 
lying  on  their  litters  as  they  waited  their  turn  out- 
side the  schoolhouse  of  Alexinatz,  which  was  used  as 
a  temporary  hospital  by  the  English  surgeons  under 
their  brave  and  clever  chief,  Doctor  MacKellar. 

To-night  there  was  an  unbroken  line  of  bearers, 
stretching  down  the  main  street  out  of  the  town 
and  away  into  the  open  country.  Many  of  the  badly 
wounded  had  waited  since  early  morn  for  surgical 
treatment.  Some,  growing  impatient,  had  struggled 
out  of  their  stretchers,  or  the  crowded  wagons,  and 
had  crawled  along  the  sidewalks  toward  the  school- 
house  till  their  lifeblood  drained  from  their  veins 
into  the  gutters.  There  they  lay,  some  stiff  and  stark, 
staring  up  into  the  face  of  the  mellow  moon.  As  we 
slowly  walked  down  the  sad  procession  we  would 
turn  aside  those  already  dead  to  make  room  for  the 
living  to  gain  the  hospital.  Forbes  and  I  toiled  un- 
remittingly backward  and  forward  on  this  painful 
duty  till  the  fires  in  the  valley  paled  before  the 
stronger  light  of  dawn. 

The  three  or  four  rooms  which  constituted  the 
hospital  were  crowded.  There  was  hardly  space 
for  the  doctors  to  work  in,  and  this  they  had  to  do 
by  the  fitful  flicker  of  a  few  tallow  candles  fixed 
in  their  congealed  grease  on  the  floor.  I  had  been 
assisting  the  surgeons  by  passing  the  instruments 
from  one  room  to  another,  holding  a  candle,  or  press- 

vol.  i.— 3  31 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

ing  the  hand  of  some  poor  creature  under  operation, 
until  I  became  faint  from  the  heavy  atmosphere 
and  had  to  leave  the  room  for  fresh  air.  Picking 
my  way  through  the  crowd  of  wounded  on  the  land- 
ing and  stairway,  I  had  gained  the  street  entrance, 
when  my  leg  was  plucked  at  by  a  poor  wretch  in  the 
shadow  of  the  portal. 

As  he  lifted  his  head  a  moonbeam  fell  upon  a  sight 
I  shall  never  forget.  His  face — a  mere  pulp — had 
been  crushed  by  a  fragment  of  shell  and  was  as 
black  as  a  negro's  with  clotted  gore.  Staring  ap- 
palled at  this  gruesome  sight,  I  was  roused  by  his 
touching  my  boot,  and,  slowly  lifting  his  arm,  point- 
ing to  the  lower  part  of  his  face.  He  repeated  this 
action  twice  before  I  understood  him;  then  I  knelt 
by  his  side  and  poured  some  brandy  from  my  flask 
down  his  throat.  He  could  not  express  his  thanks 
by  word  of  mouth,  but  his  eyelids  trembled,  and  he 
lifted  his  arm  again,  bringing  his  hand  gradually  to 
the  salute.  The  patience  of  this  soldier  in  his  fearful 
plight  will  ever  remain  in  my  memory. 

During  the  night  a  contingent  of  Russian  volun- 
teers arrived  with  a  few  officers.  Then,  when  the 
sun  was  up,  Serbian  reinforcements  came  in  from 
Deligrad.  To  the  blare  of  bugles  and  with  swinging 
stride,  the  troops  came  tramping  down  the  street, 
headed  by  King  Milan  and  his  staff".  Some  of  the 
few  remaining  wounded  of  the  previous  night,  still 
lying  in  the  roadway,  aroused  themselves  for  a 
moment  and  tried  to  turn  their  groans  into  cheers. 

32 


SERBIA   UNDER  MILAN 

But  the  sour-faced  monarch  took  little  notice  of  the 
greetings  of  his  suffering  soldiers;  he  ignored  their 
salutes  and  seemed  totally  indifferent  to  their  plight. 
Far  into  the  morning  the  points  of  the  bayonets 
glittered  above  the  dust  cloud  as  the  regiments 
marched  through  the  town  down  into  the  valley — 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  indeed,  for  the 
smell  of  powder  and  blood  was  everywhere. 

Gradually  the  desultory  shots  that  had  been  ex- 
changed in  the  early  morning  decreased,  and  for  a 
time  a  universal  quietude  reigned,  but  just  before 
midday  the  reopening  of  artillery  fire  on  both  sides 
and  the  sharp  crackle  of  musketry  presaged  close 
fighting. 

I  had  been  always  easily  stirred  by  some  dramatic 
action  in  a  good  play,  or  the  martial  strains  of  a  fine 
band,  but  the  ping  of  the  bullet  and  the  whistle  of 
the  shell  that  day  certainly  affected  me  more. 

"Plenty  of  time,"  said  my  friend  Forbes,  noticing 
my  perturbed  spirits.  "They  are  just  playing  up 
to  the  grand  finale  and  that's  when  we  ought 
to  be  there.  Come,  sit  down  now  and  eat  your 
dinner." 

We  took  our  accustomed  seats  at  the  little  table 
in  the  corner  of  our  hostelry,  facing  the  street.  As 
we  were  beginning  our  meal,  a  smiling  young  Rus- 
sian with  Calmuck-like  cheek  bones,  sandy  hair, 
small,  gray  eyes,  and  tip-tilted  nose  with  a  pair  of 
blue  spectacles  perched  upon  it,  looked  in  at  the  win- 
dow.    On  seeing  us  he  opened  the  door,  walked  in, 

33 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

bowed,  and  marched  up  to  our  table.  He  smiled 
and  wiped  his  pince-nez  on  the  sleeve  of  his  jacket, 
placed  it  on  the  table  by  his  plate,  then  called  for 
food,  and  commenced  eating. 

Nowadays,  being  an  old  campaigner,  I  can  put 
up  with  almost  any  kind  of  eccentricity  in  the  manner 
of  eating,  but  this  little  Russian's  behavior  was,  to 
say  the  least,  nauseating. 

My  sense  of  decency  was  so  aroused  at  his  exhibi- 
tion that  I  turned  to  Forbes  and  said,  "That  young 
man  will  not  be  a  great  loss  to  society  if  he  gets 
shot  this  afternoon." 

After  the  Russian  had  put  himself  at  ease  and 
lodged  his  goggles  on  his  little  sunburnt  nose  his 
face  widened  into  a  broad  grin  and  he  told  us  that 
he  knew  us  by  repute,  that  he  had  only  arrived  that 
morning,  that  he  was  a  brother  war  correspondent 
for  a  Moscow  journal,  and  that  he  felt  highly  honored 
in  making  the  acquaintance  of  two  such  distinguished 
brethren. 

In  spite  of  his  urbanity  and  good  humor,  the 
uncomfortable  sensations  he  had  caused  us  by  his 
novel  use  of  the  fork  could  not  be  easily  effaced, 
and  we  were  glad  to  light  our  pipes  and  get  once 
more  into  the  street.  The  increasing  rattle  of  mus- 
ketry and  booming  of  guns  all  through  dinner  told 
us  that  the  fight  was  waxing  hotter  and  hotter.  We 
hastened  to  the  bridgehead,  where  we  found  the 
works  bristling  with  bayonets,  for  the  reserves  who 
had  arrived  that  morning  were  packed  closely  there, 

34 


SERBIA   UNDER  MILAN 

under  cover.  About  half  a  mile  from  the  bridge  we 
joined  MacKellar  and  his  surgeons  and  jogged  along 
in  their  ambulance  till  we  came  to  a  favorable  spot 
beside  a  deserted  cottage,  where  we  halted  to  receive 
the  wounded. 

In  our  immediate  front  were  fields  of  Indian  corn, 
then  a  wood  stretched  from  the  river  on  our  left 
flank  as  far  as  the  hills  skirting  the  right  of  the 
valley.  Through  this  wood  and  close  in  to  the  foot- 
hills where  it  passed  a  village,  our  road  could  be 
traced  by  occasional  pufFs  of  smoke  and  dust  as  a 
shell  struck  it,  or  as  a  mounted  orderly  scampered 
along.  The  fighting  was  fierce  on  the  other  side  of 
the  thicket.  We  could  see  the  branches  of  the  trees 
stand  out  in  bold  relief  against  the  yellow  flashes 
of  our  artillery  on  the  outer  fringe.  The  little  village 
on  our  right  seemed  almost  deserted,  but  lazily 
hanging  in  the  noontide  heat  was  a  Red  Cross  flag 
on  the  roof  of  one  of  the  houses.  A  surgeon,  whom  I 
joined,  was  told  off  to  go  as  far  as  this  hamlet  and 
report  the  number  of  wounded.  As  we  began  to 
move  parallel  to  the  wood  a  horseman  passed  us, 
waving  his  arms  in  recognition  and  grinning  from 
ear  to  ear.  His  horse,  a  rugged,  heavy-boned  animal, 
seemed  to  be  playing  cup-and-ball  with  him,  but 
the  rider  still  held  on.  It  was  our  recent  acquaint- 
ance, the  Moscow  correspondent. 

One  or  two  shells  from  the  enemy,  missing  our 
artillery,  passed  over  the  trees  and  fell  upon  the 
road.     One  whistled  so  near  to  us  that  we  fell  flat 

35 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

upon  the  ground.  It  whisked  along  into  the  field 
on  our  right  and  burst  in  the  soft  soil.  As  the  mud 
and  the  stones  were  scattered  around,  more  and 
more  did  our  little  Russian's  horse  seem  to  play 
cup-and-ball  with  his  rider,  till  we  lost  sight  of  horse 
and  man  as  they  danced  into  the  village. 

On  entering  the  hamlet  we  found  it  rapidly  filling 
with  wounded,  many  of  whom  had  maimed  them- 
selves by  blowing  off  their  trigger  fingers.  These 
stumps  were  freshly  blackened  with  powder,  and  we 
could  see  by  the  looks  of  these  cowardly  creatures 
and  the  somber  faces  of  the  seriously  hurt  that  the 
day  was  lost. 

We  made  our  way  to  the  ambulance  house.  The 
wounded  were  being  hurried  out  of  the  place  into 
country  carts  which  were  sent  away  as  soon  as 
filled.  To  our  surprise  we  found  the  Red  Cross 
Service  worked  devotedly  by  three  Russian  women, 
dressed  in  neat  uniforms,  with  their  badge  of  office 
painted  on  their  black  mackintosh  aprons. 

Up  to  their  armpits  in  blood,  these  plucky  little 
ladies  had  been  carrying  on  the  duty  of  the  hospital 
all  day,  and  they  were  now  standing  at  their  post, 
seeing  to  the  safe  departure  of  the  wounded.  Each 
moment  the  noise  increased  in  the  main  street. 
Now  a  gun  thundered  along,  then  another,  followed 
by  a  few  civilian  fugitives.  A  shell  skimmed  over 
the  roof  of  the  hospital,  loosening  a  few  tiles,  but 
leaving  the  Red  Cross  flag  still  flying.  The  Serbians 
had  already  commenced  the  retreat.    How  soon  the 

36 


SERBIA   UNDER  MILAN 

Turks  might  be  in  the  place  Heaven  only  knew.  I 
turned  to  the  sisters,  lifted  my  hat,  and  said: 

"Ladies,  the  enemy  is  outflanking  our  position 
and  will  probably  be  in  the  village  in  less  than  half 
an  hour.  Let  us  see  you  on  the  road  to  safety,  and 
leave  this  business  to  us,"  pointing  to  a  few  maimed 
creatures  still  awaiting  transport. 

One  lady,  with  top-boots  of  Hessian  cut,  short 
skirt,  Cossack  jacket,  and  a  pistol  slung  across  her 
shoulders,  touched  the  little  black-silk  Montenegrin 
cap  fixed  on  her  mop  of  frizzly  auburn  hair,  and, 
after  this  mock  salute,  said,  sternly: 

"Sir,  who  are  you?" 

Rather  abashed,  I  stammered  out  a  reply,  but 
without  heeding  me  she  continued: 

"You  are  not  a  soldier.  I  can  see  this  is  no  place 
for  you." 

"I  am  a  war  artist,"  I  stuttered. 

"Then,  as  a  non-combatant,  seek  a  place  of  safety 
and  leave  us  alone." 

Our  Moscow  correspondent  friend  had  ridden  up, 
and  when  he  heard  this  remark  of  his  country- 
woman his  miserable  stereotyped  grin  suffused  his 
face,  and  in  my  inmost  heart  I  was  sorry  that  his 
horse  had  not  missed  him  at  cup-and-ball. 

The  Russian  Red  Cross  ladies  stuck  heroically 
to  their  post.  Out  of  pique  we  felt  obliged  to  stay 
and  see  them  off  the  ground,  which  was  now  being 
swept  by  the  Turkish  sharpshooters  clearing  their 
front.     As  we  left  one  end  of  the  village  with  our 

37 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

contingent  of  wounded,  the  Turks  entered  the  other. 
Luckily  for  us,  the  Serbs  made  a  bold  stand  for  at 
least  an  hour,  allowing  us  to  join  the  line  of  retreat. 
We  were  whirled  along  in  thick  clouds  of  dust,  in 
which,  struggling  and  jumbling,  rolled  artillery,  am- 
bulances, and  peasants'  carts,  crowded  with  women 
and  their  children  and  their  goods  and  chattels. 
Suddenly  the  wheel  of  a  wagon  left  its  axle;  down 
crashed  the  cart,  shooting  its  contents  of  household 
goods  into  the  road.  The  pots  and  pans,  rolling 
between  the  legs  of  some  artillery  horses,  frightened 
the  poor  brutes  onto,  their  haunches,  and  they,  back- 
ing the  gun  into  a  team  of  oxen,  set  these  animals 
kicking  out  right  and  left,  scattering  the  limping 
wounded  and  stragglers.  With  shrieks,  groans,  and 
curses,  the  seething  masses  halted  for  a  time,  then 
straggled  on,  all  making  for  the  protection  of  the 
reserves  at  the  bridgehead. 

On  reaching  MacKellar's  quarters  once  more  I 
found  that  Forbes,  with  great  forethought,  had, 
at  the  commencement  of  the  retreat,  turned  the 
doctor's  ambulance  wagon  around  toward  Alexinatz 
and  was  now  strongly  urging  one  of  the  surgeons, 
young  Hare,  to  hurry  up  into  the  vehicle.  This 
surgeon  was  called  "the  timid  Hare,"  not  for  want 
of  pluck — far  from  that! — but  on  account  of  his 
modest,  retiring  temperament.  He  was  now  busy 
tying  an  artery  of  a  wounded  soldier,  who  was  still 
bleeding  badly,  and  would  not  leave  his  charge. 

"For  goodness  sake,  come  along!"  cried  Forbes. 


SERBIA   UNDER  MILAN 

"The  Turks  are  now  at  our  side  of  the  wood.  Look! 
Their  bullets  are  drilling  holes  through  the  mud 
walls  of  the  hut." 

But  still  "the  timid  Hare"  hung  on  to  the  man's 
artery.  We  rushed  at  the  surgeon  just  as  the  last 
turn  of  the  bulldog  tourniquet  did  its  work,  and 
Hare  and  his  patient  were  bundled  together  into  the 
wagon.  In  another  moment  we  were  being  whirled 
on  with  the  tag-end  of  the  column. 

As  I  looked  back  along  the  road  I  saw  the  Red 
Cross  flag  in  the  village  we  had  just  quitted  still 
flying,  but  now  over  the  heads  of  the  followers  of  the 
False  Prophet.  Already  flames  leaped  up  in  several 
places  and  a  column  of  black  smoke  rolled  toward 
the  sky.  Only  a  few  shells  burst  on  our  line  of  re- 
treat, for  the  Turkish  guns  were  soon  silenced  by 
our  heavier  artillery  at  the  head  of  the  bridge. 

The  Moslems  did  not  harass  the  Serbians  further, 
for  night  was  falling.  Unmolested,  our  jaded  column 
passed  over  the  bridge  and  up  into  the  town  of 
Alexinatz  to  repeat  the  horrors  of  the  previous  night. 
King  Milan  and  his  staff  had  already  passed  through 
to  his  headquarters  at  Deligrade. 

Entering  the  schoolhouse  to  see  how  the  wounded 
were  getting  on,  I  discovered  a  body  laid  out  for 
burial.  The  figure  seemed,  somehow,  quite  familiar 
to  me.  Walking  up  to  the  table,  I  stood  dum- 
founded.  There  was  the  little  nose,  almost  black 
against  the  livid  face.  With  a  quiet  smile  on  his 
lips  lay  our  Russian  friend,  the  correspondent. 

39 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

A  handkerchief  tied  round  his  throat  hid  the  wound 
which  had  caused  his  death.  A  stray  shot  had  passed 
through  his  neck.  A  great  sadness  fell  upon  me,  for 
he  was  one  of  us,  after  all.  I  could  picture  his  mother 
or  some  dear  one  waiting  anxiously  for  his  return, 
far  away  in  the  heart  of  Russia. 

While  I  was  still  in  the  room  two  soldiers  placed 
the  body  on  a  stretcher,  and  a  Sister  of  Mercy  ar- 
ranged a  few  flowers  round  the  little  cross  on  his 
breast  as  he  was  carried  out  into  the  street.  As  he 
was  a  civilian,  the  officials  of  the  Orthodox  Church 
were  notified  of  his  death.  In  rich  vestments,  four 
priests  and  a  choir  of  boys  headed  the  funeral  pro- 
cession, which  I  followed  as  it  moved  ofF  to  the  little 
cemetery  overlooking  the  town. 

It  was  almost  dark  before  the  service  was  over. 
When  I  returned  Forbes  had  sent  off"  his  day's  bud- 
get of  news,  and  was  waiting  for  me  to  sit  down  with 
him  to  our  evening  meal  at  the  inn.  I  told  him  of 
the  fate  of  the  little  correspondent  and  my  sad 
journey.  Looking  steadily  at  me,  he  said,  "Do  you 
remember  your  observation  about  our  Russian  col- 
league at  this  very  table  this  morning?" 

The  recollection  came  back  to  me  with  painful 
vividness.  "Yes,"  I  sighed.  "I  remember — I 
remember." 


Chapter  III 

THE  DEVIL  AND  THE  DEEP  SEA 

/  am  ordered  to  India,  but  am  shunted  at  Vienna  for  Turkey — /  meet 
Valentine  Baker  for  the  first  time — /  start  on  an  adventurous  journey — 
/  succor  a  man  much  against  my  will  and  am  obliged  to  beard  the 
lion  in  his  den — /  become  acquainted  with  a  great  American,  Januaris 
Aloysius  MacGhan — He  recommended  me  to  go  to  Batac — /  find  a 
ghastly  state  of  affairs  there — /  bring  back  three  trophies  and  tun 
three  narrow  risks,  but  I  come  out  on  top. 

'"PHOUGH  the  Serbians  continued  to  put  up  a 
-*■  very  good  fight,  the  Turks  were  pressing  them 
hard  everywhere.  The  greatest  blow  to  King  Milan 
was  the  loss  of  Alexinatz,  which  fell  October  31, 
1876.  Forbes  and  I  were  absolutely  the  last  civilians 
in  the  place,  and,  finding  one  morning  that  our  lines 
of  communication  had  been  cut  by  Bashi-Bazouks, 
the  Turkish  irregulars,  we  were  compelled  to  beat  a 
retreat.  We  dodged  the  Turkish  outposts  by  taking 
a  mule  path  through  the  forest  skirting  the  main 
road  and  joined  the  retreating  army  at  Deligrade. 
The  fall  of  Alexinatz  brought  about  intervention  by 
the  Great  Powers  and  an  armistice  was  eventually 
proclaimed.  As  all  fighting  was  over  for  a  time,  I 
made  my  way  back  from  the  Serbian  front  to  Bel- 

4i 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

grade  and  wired  to  my  paper  for  instructions.  The 
reply  was,  "Prepare  to  start  for  India  for  the  Proc- 
lamation of  the  Queen-Empress." 

I  immediately  left  the  Serbian  capital  for  Vienna. 
Having  kicked  my  heels  for  about  five  days  in  that 
gay  city,  I  received  notice  from  my  journal  that  the 
Indian  function  had  been  provided  for  and  that  I 
was  to  join  the  Turkish  army.  From  an  editorial 
chair  this  change  meant  little,  but  to  me  it  was  a 
grave  proposition,  for,  after  sharing  the  vicissitudes 
of  the  Serbian  army  for  some  eight  months,  suddenly 
to  go  over  to  their  enemy  was  to  make  a  change 
fraught  with  no  little  danger. 

But  such  bouleversement,  after  all,  was  simply  part 
of  a  war  correspondent's  duty,  so  I  returned  to  the 
seat  of  war,  this  time  to  join  the  Turks.  The  only 
possibility  of  getting  through  with  the  job  was  to 
wipe  the  slate  clean  and  start  on  my  new  venture 
as  a  gentleman  just  out  from  England  and  anxious 
to  see  some  of  that  wonderful  material  which  is  the 
support  of  the  great  Ottoman  Empire,  the  sturdy 
Turkish  fighting-man. 

On  board  the  Danubian  steamer  I  chummed  in 
with  a  bright,  smart  young  Irishman,  fresh  from 
Trinity  College,  Dublin.  He  was  on  a  journey  of 
adventure,  bent  on  joining  either  the  Serbs  or  the 
Turks,  and  had  tossed  up  to  decide  the  matter. 
Heads  had  won,  and  so  had  the  Turks.  At  Kalafat, 
on  the  Rumanian  side  of  the  river,  my  Irish  friend 
requisitioned  a  small  fishing  boat  and  rowed  himself 

42 


THE  DEVIL  AND   THE  DEEP  SEA 

across  to  Vidin,  there  to  join  Osman  Pasha.  This 
young  Irishman  was  poor  Frank  Power,  who  was 
killed  ten  years  later  in  trying  to  escape  from  Khar- 
tum when  acting  as  correspondent  for  the  London 
Times. 

At  Rustchuk  I  landed  with  another  acquaintance 
I  had  made  on  the  boat,  and  remained  two  or  three 
days  in  that  town  with  the  object  of  seeing  the  for- 
tifications. An  Armenian  dragoman,  whom  we  had 
engaged,  told  us  that  there  would  be  no  difficulty 
in  obtaining  permission  and  that  he  would  make 
all  arrangements  with  the  officials. 

One  morning  we  drove  up  to  the  citadel.  To  our 
surprise  the  guard  turned  out  and  we  were  saluted 
on  entering  the  fortress.  Here  the  colonel  in  com- 
mand and  his  stafF  shov/ed  so  much  enthusiasm 
on  meeting  us  that  we  were  almost  paralyzed  with 
astonishment.  While  his  troops  were  mustering  for 
parade  he  took  us  around  the  fortress.  We  went 
through  every  hole  and  corner  of  that  remarkable 
stronghold,  then  we  rested  and  were  regaled  with 
cofFee  and  cigarettes;  then  came  the  grand  finale 
to  this  surprising  reception,  a  review  of  all  the 
available  troops,  in  which  we  formed  the  saluting 
point! 

At  parting  the  colonel  expressed  his  thanks  for 
the  honor  we  had  done  him  and  his  officers  and 
trusted  we  should  go  home  with  a  good  impression 
of  the  Turkish  soldier. 

When  we   returned   to   our   hotel  we  noticed  an 

43 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

extra  politeness  on  the  part  of  the  landlord  and  his 
servants,  which  amused  us  greatly. 

"Well,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "this  is  extraor- 
dinary and  at  the  same  time  rather  unfortunate," 
as  I  by  no  means  desired  to  be  made  a  fuss  over  or 
to  get  into  the  limelight.  After  thinking  the  situation 
over  a  bit,  I  called  up  the  dragoman  who  had  con- 
ducted us  in  the  morning  and  said  to  him,  "What  on 
earth  do  these  people  mean  by  their  extraordinary  civ- 
ility and  our  splendid  reception  up  at  the  citadel?" 

With  a  cunning  smile  on  his  face  and  rapping  his 
nose  with  his  forefinger,  he  replied,  "I  am  a  very  good 
dragoman." 

I  nodded  assent. 

He  continued,  "I  am  ze  best  dragoman  in  all  ze 
Turkey." 

I  said:  "All  right;  but  go  on,  you  fool.  What  do 
you  mean?" 

"You  say  you  want  to  see  ze  fortress.  Only  most 
important  personage  can  gain  admittance,  for  it  is  ze 
war  zat  is  on.  So  I  say  to  myself,  'Zese  gentlemen 
must  be  very  big  bug;  zey  must  be  colonels  of  ze 
British  army,  and  also  ze  M.P.'s,  too.'  So  I  went 
to  ze  citadel  and  I  told  ze  commandant. 

"Hang  it  all!"  I  exclaimed,  not  without  admiration 
for  the  fellow's  effrontery.  "Look  at  the  hole  you've 
placed  us  in.  They  will  wire  to  the  Embassy  in 
Constantinople,  and  we  shall  probably  be  imprisoned 
in  some  filthy  Turkish  hole,  or  stood  up  against  a 
wall  and  plugged  with  bullets." 

44 


THE  DEVIL  AND   THE  DEEP  SEA 

Still  with  his  cunning  smile  on  his  face  and  shaking 
his  head,  "Oh  no,  you  won't,  sare,"  he  continued. 
"I  am  ze  cleverest  dragoman  in  all  ze  Turkey.  I 
am  no  fool.  I  tell  zem  zat  you  were  traveling  what 
you  call  incognito,  on  ze  secret  service  of  your 
country." 

We  had  a  good  time,  certainly,  but  the  situation 
had  become  too  dangerous  for  us,  so  we  took  the 
evening  train  for  Varna  and  the  next  day  steamed 
down  the  Bosporus  and  landed  in  the  foul  but 
gloriously  picturesque  city  of  the  Sultans.  Here  my 
difficulties  in  getting  to  the  Turkish  front  were  to 
begin.  Luckily,  however,  in  those  days  the  names  of 
artists  were  seldom  published  below  their  sketches, 
so  I  was  known  but  little  even  to  the  English 
fraternity. 

At  the  club  in  the  Grand  rue  de  Pera  I  met  several 
interesting  personages.  One  who  sat  opposite  to  me 
nearly  every  dinner  hour  was  destined  to  distinguish 
himself  as  the  savior  of  the  remnant  of  the  Turkish 
army  that  was  driven  back  by  the  Russians  onto 
Constantinople  two  years  later.  This  officer  was 
under  a  cloud  for  the  moment — depressed  and 
gloomy.  He  would  talk  to  me  of  the  impossibility 
of  dealing  with  the  Turkish  officials  and  of  the  diffi- 
culty in  organizing  their  gendarmerie — a  service 
which  was  his  special  mission,  for  my  friend  of  the 
dinner  table  was  Col.  Valentine  Baker,  formerly  of 
the  ioth  Hussars. 

But  another  person  whom  I  met  in  that  club, 

45 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

probably  more  interesting  to  me  for  the  moment, 
was  about  to  visit  the  interior  of  Turkey  for  the 
purpose  of  writing  a  book — a  strange  undertaking 
at  this  particular  moment  when  the  country  was 
up  in  arms.  The  Bulgarian  atrocities  were  still 
rampant  and  things  generally  were  anything  but 
pleasant.  However,  this  was  just  the  man  I  wanted 
to  meet,  for  he  had  a  firman — a  Turkish  passe  partout. 
It  was  at  least  a  yard  in  length,  and  the  Sultan's 
signature  to  it  was  as  big  as  one's  hand.  Now  a 
long  firman  goes  a  long  way  with  the  Turkish 
official,  for,  according  to  the  size  of  the  document, 
so,  in  those  days,  were  hospitality  and  politeness 
meted  out  to  its  lucky  possessor. 

The  owner  of  this  precious  scroll  was  a  jovial, 
chubby  sea  captain,  with  a  face  beaming  like  the 
sun,  ruddy  and  cheerful.  His  vigorous,  curly  hair 
had  a  tinge  of  gray  in  it,  for  he  had  commanded  a 
tramp  vessel  in  the  Black  Sea  during  the  Crimean 
War  and  had  supplied  the  British  and  Turkish 
troops  with  salt  beef  and  potatoes,  carrying  wounded 
back  to  the  base  of  operations.  The  Turks  re- 
membered the  man  with  gratitude  for  his  services 
in  the  old  days  and  from  the  Sublime  Porte  he  had 
received  this  three-foot  firman  on  the  strength  of 
these  memories. 

This  was  the  man  for  me.  I  could  not  apply  for 
a  permit  on  my  own  account,  considering  my  recent 
connection  with  the  Serbians,  so  I  persuaded  the 
jovial  sea   captain   to   include   me  in   his   passport, 

46 


THE  DEVIL  AND    THE  DEEP   SEA 

which  he  did,  as  traveling  assistant  artist  to  the 
owner  of  the  document,  my  name,  luckily,  not  being 
mentioned  at  all. 

What  a  time  we  had  in  those  days!  You  had 
simply,  to  be  an  Englishman  and  you  were  received 
with  open  arms  by  the  Turkish  official,  merchant,  or 
;  peasant.  At  Adrianople  an  aide-de-camp  from  the 
'  governor  met  us.  We  were  billeted  on  the  first 
merchant  of  the  town,  who,  with  usual  Oriental 
politeness,  would  come  in  as  we  were  finishing  our 
evening  meal,  inquire  after  our  healths,  and,  with 
a  salaam,  assure  us  that  his  servants,  his  horses, 
and  his  house  were  no  longer  his,  but  ours.  Poor 
fellow!  we  found  that  to  accommodate  us  he  was 
obliged  to  take  up  quarters  in  his  harem  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  road. 

The  governor  was  good  enough  to  place  his  stables 
at  our  disposal,  but  as  they  contained  full-blooded 
Arab  stallions  I  visited  the  sights  of  Adrianople  on 
foot.  My  companion,  being  a  sailor,  of  course  took 
kindly  to  the  horses,  but  somehow  the  animals  did 
not  reciprocate.  When  we  eventually  left  Adrianople 
my  friend  was  almost  a  cripple,  owing  to  the  erratic 
temper  of  the  governor's  chargers. 

The  misery  of  Rumelia  soon  became  apparent 
as  we  traveled  inland.  Whole  villages  had  been 
wiped  out  and  nothing  left  standing  but  the  brick 
stacks  of  chimneys — smoke-begrimed  monuments  of 
Turkish  oppression  and  cruelty.  Dead  bodies, 
scantily  buried,  lay  in  the  furrowed  fields  by  the 
vol.  i. — 4  47 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECIDES  OF  ADVENTURE 

roadside,  their  feet  and  hands,  and  sometimes  their 
heads,  sticking  out  of  the  foul  mud.  Bashi-Bazouks, 
with  their  motley  costumes,  or  Circassians  in  their 
quaint  astrakhan  headgear  and  long,  sober-colored 
coats,  with  their  breasts  studded  with  silver  car- 
tridges, passed  us  on  the  road.  Behind  came  their 
baggage  ponies  loaded  with  plunder  from  the  Bul- 
garian and  Serbian  villages.  They  never  molested 
us,  however,  as  we  were  escorted  by  a  zaptiah  almost 
as  villainously  picturesque  as  those  cutthroats  them- 
selves, and  we  were  also  known  to  be  Englishmen. 
For  the  fiat  had  gone  forth  from  Constantinople 
throughout  the  land  that  the  British  were  to  be 
respected. 

Right  up  to  the  old  town  of  Nish  wrecked  villages 
lined  the  gruesome  way.  How  glad  was  I,  for  a  time, 
to  get  out  of  all  this  misery  and  to  settle  down  for  a 
few  days  in  that  old  frontier  town  of  Turkey. 

The  English  doctors  there  serving  with  the  Turk- 
ish army  gave  us  a  good  reception,  and  I  found  a 
corner  on  an  ottoman  where  I  could  rest  my  weary 
head  in  a  room  with  six  surgeons — gallant,  plucky 
volunteers  who  had  been  striving  to  relieve  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  wretched  wounded  for  the  last  eight 
months  and  who  had  been  living  on  short  commons 
and  more  or  less  pigging  it  purely  for  humanity's 
sake — good  fellows  all! 

One  night,  while  we  sat  at  our  meager  little  meal 
in  our  drawing  room,  dining  room  and  bedroom 
in  one,   Barrington   Kennett   (the  late  Sir  Vincent 

48 


THE  DEVIL  AND   THE  DEEP  SEA 

Kennett-Barrington)  came  in  from  the  Serbian 
camp  across  the  lines.  He  was  permitted  by  the 
Turks  to  pass  through  to  Constantinople  during 
the  armistice,  for  the  purpose  of  procuring  comforts 
and  medical  stores  for  the  Serbian  wounded.  He 
was  astonished  to  see  me  at  that  dinner  table,  for 
I  had  traveled  with  him  for  many  weeks  in  Serbia 
during  the  early  fighting  when  I  was  accredited  to 
the  army  of  that  state. 

"It's  all  very  fine,  Villiers,  to  change  about  like 
this,"  he  said,  "but  you'd  better  take  care.  Oh, 
by  the  bye,  you  say  you  are  going  to  join  the  Turks 
who  now  occupy  Alexinatz.  You  are  a  good  fellow, 
and  I  know  you'll  do  me  a  service.  I  have  a  Serbian 
servant  who  promised  to  go  with  me  as  far  as  Con- 
stantinople, but  he's  now  in  such  a  deuce  of  a  funk 
for  fear  the  Turks  may  do  him  some  mischief  that 
he  won't  go  any  farther,  and  at  the  same  time  he  is 
afraid  to  go  back  unless  his  safety  is  guaranteed. 
I  pity  the  man,  for  he  volunteered  with  a  good  heart, 
but  it  has  failed  him.  I  must  be  off  after  breakfast 
to-morrow,  and  I  can't  look  after  him.  Will  you 
befriend  him  for  my  sake?" 

"Right  you  are,  Kennett;  I'll  send  him  across  the 
frontier  into  the  Serbian  lines.     Have  no  fear." 

It  was  a  rash  promise,  though  I  did  not  know  it 
at  the  time.  The  Serbian  was  overcome  with  grati- 
tude, and  that,  of  course,  made  me  all  the  more 
firm  in  my  resolve  to  see  him  safely  into  the  hands 
of  his  countrymen. 

49 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

At  breakfast  next  morning,  Kennett,  who  was 
very  jovial,  told  us  some  of  his  experiences  in  coming 
through  the  hostile  lines,  and  then,  suddenly  looking 
up  at  me,  he  said: 

"Oh,  by  Jove!  Villiers,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that 
the  Turks  don't  at  all  love  you  at  Alexinatz.  Hafuz 
Pasha,  the  governor,  has  threatened  to  hang  the 
correspondent  of  the  Graphic  on  sight  on  account 
of  the  bad  impression  he  caused  in  England  by 
sending  a  sketch  depicting  the  cruelty  of  the  Turks 
toward  Serbian  prisoners;  so  just  you  look  after 
yourself." 

I  was  rather  irritated  that  he  had  not  informed 
me  of  this  uncharitable  feeling  on  the  part  of  the 
governor  of  Alexinatz  before  asking  me  to  take  his 
servant  across  the  lines  beyond  that  very  city. 

I  thought  it  only  fair  to  tell  my  sea-captain 
friend  of  the  risk  I  was  running,  but  that  sturdy  old 
seaman,  in  spite  of  squalls  ahead  and  probably  very 
dirty  weather,  tacked  round  to  my  view  of  the  situ- 
ation and  lent  me  the  kindly  cover  of  his  talismanic 
firman. 

At  eight  the  next  morning  we  faced  the  dreary 
plain  between  Nish  and  Alexinatz.  The  air  was 
crisp  with  frost  and  the  little  puddles  in  the  rough 
road  with  their  thin  covering  of  ice  cracked  as  our 
horses  cantered  over  them. 

Toward  evening  we  sighted  the  quaint  tower  of 
the  orthodox  church  of  Alexinatz  and  the  familiar 
trenches    and    redoubts    girding    the    city,    behind 

5o 


THE  DEVIL  AND   THE  DEEP  SEA 

which,  only  a  few  weeks  earlier,  I  had  watched  the 
bloody  advance  of  the  Turks  up  the  Morava  Valley. 
My  heart  was  beating  fast  as  I  crossed  the  little 
wooden  bridge  over  the  Morava  into  the  town.  Our 
horses  were  covered  with  hoarfrost,  for  the  last  ruddy 
flash  of  sunlight  had  left  us  when  still  a  mile  short 
of  the  outskirts.  The  puddles  had  filmed  over  with 
ice  again,  and  the  tired  animals,  after  floundering 
in  the  deep  ruts  of  the  abominable  road,  were  now 
limping  with  bleeding  hoofs  up  the  main  street 
toward  the  governor's  dwelling. 

Every  house  had  been  looted.  Doors  and  window 
frames  had  been  taken  for  firewood,  and  iron,  copper, 
or  metal  of  any  kind  torn  away  from  the  crazy 
structures,  so  that  it  seemed  to  require  but  a  puff"  of 
wind  to  send  them  tumbling  like  a  pack  of  cards  to 
the  ground.  Horses  were  stabled  in  the  hotel  where 
Forbes  and  I  took  our  last  meal  before  the  fall  of 
Alexinatz,  and  in  the  center  of  the  roofless,  gutted 
building  was  a  roaring  fire  built  up  of  the  doors  and 
rafters,  and  a  party  of  wild  Bashi-Bazouks  were 
carousing  round  the  blaze. 

The  news  of  the  arrival  of  the  two  strangers  soon 
spread.  But  though  the  town  was  alive  with  cut- 
throats and  ruffians,  the  irregular  troops  of  a  Turkish 
army,  we  were  not  molested,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
were  treated  with  deference  and  consideration. 
The  magic  of  the  yard-long  firman  had  traveled 
before  us.  The  rest  of  the  way  to  the  governor's 
house  was  lighted  by  the  glare  of  the  burning  panel 

5i 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

of  a  door  steeped  in  oil.  But  there  was  no  need  of  a 
guide  for  me,  as  I  knew  every  inch  of  the  ground 
and  every  corner  of  the  building,  the  wine  cellar 
included.  I  wondered  if  there  was  still  any  Negotin 
left — an  excellent  vintage  from  the  Serbian  province 
of  that  name. 

"Three  steps  here,  sir,"  said  our  dragoman,  as 
we  ascended  the  stoop  in  front  of  the  konak.  I 
laughed  in  my  sleeve — as  if  I  didn't  know!  I  re- 
membered one  moonlight  night  when  good  Negotin 
wine  annihilated  those  steps  and —     But  no  matter. 

"The  governor,  His  Excellency  Hafuz  Pasha, 
will  be  glad  to  receive  the  distinguished  visitors," 
softly  said  an  effeminate-looking  Circassian  aide- 
de-camp  as  we  entered  the  hall. 

My  heart  stood  still  for  a  second.  Hafuz  was  the 
man  who  had  threatened  to  curtail  my  existence. 
"Well,"  I  thought,  "I  am  in  for  it  now."  I  was 
hungry,  weary,  and  cold,  and  I  resolved  that  I  would 
have  some  supper  first,  anyway.  I  took  off"  my  hat, 
and  followed  the  aide-de-camp  into  a  room  whose 
two  windows  opened  in  French  fashion  on  a  balcony 
facing  the  street.  Ah!  Didn't  I  remember  that 
same  balcony — the  summer  nights  of  August,  the 
little  Serbian  Red  Cross  sister,  and  the  gallant 
young  English  surgeon,  the  shadow  of  the  purple 
grapes  from  the  vine  overhead,  the  disturbed  kiss, 
and  the  chaff"  the  wicked  young  dog  received  from 
us  afterward.  Alas!  the  unsympathetic  Turk  had 
made  charcoal  of  the  vine.     The  metal  balustrade 

52 


THE  DEVIL  AND   THE  DEEP  SEA 

of  the  balcony  was  probably  being  made  into  slugs 
wherein  to  bring  down  the  brethren  of  the  little 
Red  Cross  sister.  Mats  and  sacking  stuffed  in  the 
cavities  that  once  were  windows  could  not  keep  the 
bitter  grip  of  the  frosty  night  out  from  the  room, 
so  we  remained  in  our  furs  as  we  stood  before  the 
famous  pasha. 

On  a  packing  case  sat  the  Turkish  commander, 
bent  forward,  chafing  his  hands  over  a  charcoal 
brazier.  On  another  trunk  by  his  side  was  a  tallow 
candle  stuck  in  its  grease  on  a  slab  of  wood.  A  camp 
table,  chair,  and  stool  made  up  the  rest  of  the  fur- 
niture. He  rose  to  his  feet  as  we  moved  toward 
him,  and  at  once  waved  to  the  chair  and  stool  for 
us  to  be  seated.  A  little  man  was  Hafuz,  with  a 
kindly  smile  on  his  face.  Blue-eyed  and  fresh 
looking,  he  was  not  more  than  fifty  years.  A  fluffy 
beard  tinged  with  gray  gave  him  the  aspect  of  a 
well-to-do  merchant  rather  than  a  warrior. 

"You  must  be  both  tired  and  hungry,  gentlemen," 
he  said.  "I  have  nothing  to  give  you  but  chops  and 
tea,  and  these  I  have  already  ordered  the  cook  to 
prepare  for  you." 

The  Pasha  spoke  in  French,  so  I  became  inter- 
preter for  my  friend,  who  knew  even  less  than  I  of 
that  language.  I  was  in  for  it  now.  I  durst  not 
hesitate. 

"Pasha,"  I  cried,  "if  you  had  anticipated  our 
desires  you  could  not  have  been  kinder.  The 
meal  you  kindly  offer  us  is  English,  and  we  will  do 

53 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

justice  to  your  hospitality  in  good  time.  My  re- 
spected employer  here,"  pointing  to  the  sea  captain, 
who  nodded,  and  smiled  urbanely,  "with  whom  I 
am  associated  in  this  firman  of  His  Glorious  Majesty 
the  Sultan — whom  may  the  Prophet  preserve"  (here 
I  unrolled  the  document  to  the  Pasha's  gaze) — "are 
travelers  in  search  of  material  for  a  book  on  the 
glories  of  the  great  Turkish  Empire.  On  our  jour- 
ney upcountry  we  met  an  Englishman  named 
Kennett." 

Here  the  Pasha,  who  had  been  yawning  and  nod- 
ding over  the  brazier,  brightened  up,  and  a  keen 
look  came  into  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  know  the  gentleman.  He  came  from  the 
Serbians  with  instructions  from  the  Seraskierat 
that  he  should  be  permitted  to  pass  through  the 
lines." 

"Well,"  I  continued,  "he  had  with  him  a  Serbian 
servant.  This  man  is  a  timid  fool.  He  got  as  far 
as  Nish,  and  there  he  began  to  tremble  for  his 
safety.  To  his  mind,  in  every  shadow  some  one 
lurked  to  do  him  harm,  till  he  prayed  to  be  sent 
back.  Then  he  began  to  tremble  again,  for  how 
could  he  return  without  safe  conduct?  Kennett  was 
on  the  horns  of  a  dilemma  in  regard  to  him  and  so 
he  begged  us  to  take  charge  of  the  creature,  as  we 
were  coming  this  way.  What  creatures  these  Ser- 
bians must  be,"  I  added,  "if  this  fellow  is  a 
specimen!" 

"The  man  shall  be  sent   back    to-morrow.     Con- 

54 


THE  DEVIL  AND   THE  DEEP  SEA 

sider  him  no  longer  a  burden  to  you.  He  is  in  my 
charge,"  replied  the  Pasha. 

"Your  Excellence!"  I  cried.  "Oh!  you  don't 
know  what  manner  of  man  this  person  is!  He  would 
die  from  sheer  fright  if  he  left  our  side.  No;  with 
your  permission,  I  will  accompany  him  to  the 
Serbian  lines." 

"It's  a  long  journey,"  said  the  Pasha,  "and  dan- 
gerous, too;  for  to-morrow  is  the  last  day  of  the 
armistice,  and  we  can't  tell  when  the  first  shot 
may  be  fired  again.     Leave  the  man  to  me." 

"Let  me  go,  Pasha.  Never  mind  my  safety.  I 
will  run  the  risk.  It  will  also  be  an  opportunity  to 
see  something  of  these  Serbians.  We  have  read 
about  them  in  England,  and  we  have  given  our  word 
to  Kennett.    Allow  us  to  keep  it." 

"Then  one  shall  go.  Choose  between  you.  t  You 
English  are  curious  people."  And  the  Pasha  laughed. 
"See  now,  your  food  is  here."  So  we  sat  down  and 
devoured  our  chops  and  tea,  while  the  hospitable 
Pasha  smiled  and  smoked. 

What  hour  to-morrow  for  departure,  Excellency?" 
I  said,  as  my  companion  and  I  rose  to  depart.  "The 
lot  has  fallen  to  me." 

"At  eight  o'clock  a  parlementaire  shall  be  at  your 
service.     Good  night." 

The  aide-de-camp  saw  us  to  our  room,  and  we 
shivered  ourselves  to  sleep. 

The  morning  broke  gloomily  enough,  the  air  por- 
tended snow,  and  before  I  had  passed  the  last  sen- 

55 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

tries  of  the  Turks  a  brisk  wind  skimmed  the  road 
right  into  the  faces  of  our  party.  Toward  midday 
our  escorting  officer  became  distressed  regarding  the 
nonappearance  of  the  Serbians. 

We  were  gradually  congealing,  as  we  could  not 
advance  out  of  a  walk,  for,  being  in  the  neutral  zone, 
we  were  within  shot  of  either  side. 

Presently  some  indistinct  shadows  were  seen  on 
the  road  ahead.  Our  bugler  was  ordered  to  sound 
a  call.  When  he  placed  the  mouthpiece  of  his  in- 
strument to  his  lips  he  could  not  pucker  them  for 
blowing;  his  mustache  was  frozen  stiff.  The  officer 
shook  his  sword  at  him.  It  was  of  no  use — the  bugle 
was  dumb.  The  shadowy  figures  on  our  front  now 
showed  black  against  the  snow,  and  were  falling 
into  skirmish  line. 

"They  are  preparing  to  fire!  Sound  the  call!" 
shouted  the  officer  as  he  pummeled  the  unfortunate 
bugler,  who  strove  in  vain  to  blow.  I  also  became 
interested  in  the  proceedings  and  wanted  to  hide 
myself  behind  something.  Those  men  in  front  were 
clearly  meaning  to  fire;  some  were  brushing  the 
snow  aside  with  their  feet  to  take  a  firmer  stand. 
We  rubbed  the  bugler's  mouth  with  snow  and  let 
him  have  another  try.  This  time  an  unmistakable 
squeak  trembled  on  the  air.  One  of  the  audacious 
Serbians  in  the  advance,  who  was  possibly  about 
to  commit  murder  by  shooting  one  of  our  number, 
stayed  his  trigger  hand  and,  placing  it  to  his  ear, 
listened.     We  urged  our  trumpeter  once  more,  and 

56 


THE  DEVIL  AND   THE  DEEP  SEA 

to  our  delight  a  clear  blast  thawed  out  of  his  instru- 
ment. At  this  the  Serbians  retired  and  were  lost 
to  view  in  the  whirling  snow. 

Presently  a  strong  body  of  Serbians  surrounded 
us  and  marched  us  into  their  camp.  The  outpost 
consisted  of  numerous  dugouts— semisubterranean 
holes  thatched  with  reeds  from  the  river  bank. 
Into  one  of  these  caverns  we  were  invited,  and 
soon  were  huddled  round  a  log  fire  in  the  center  of 
the  shanty.  The  Serb  officer  in  command  was  pro- 
fuse in  his  thanks  to  us  for  bringing  home  his  country- 
man, and  told  us  that  he  had  already  sent  off  notice 
of  our  arrival  to  General  Peterhof,  in  command  at 
Deligrad.  At  this  my  heart  sank  within  me,  for  I 
was  aware  that  Peterhof  knew  me  well  by  sight. 
Doubtless  I  should  be  taken  for  a  renegade  and 
shot,  probably  not  officially,  but  accidentally,  and 
the  distinguished  Order  of  the  Takova  sent  to  my 
people  to  soothe  their  grief  and  to  express  the  sorrow 
of  the  Serbian  government  at  my  untimely  but 
heroic  end. 

Luckily,  our  Turkish  officer  was  already  green 
with  jealousy  that  the  Serbians  should  possibly  im- 
press me  with  their  amiability.  "We  must  be  back 
before  the  night  is  far  advanced,"  said  he,  and  I 
earnestly  fostered  his  anxiety,  for  the  Turkish  staff 
of  Hafuz  was  to  entertain  me  that  night  at  dinner. 
But  to  wait  the  return  of  the  orderly  from  Deligrad 
was  almost  imperative.  We  were  now  in  the  hands 
of  the  Serbians  and  must  affect  some  civility.     At 

57 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

last  the  snorting  of  a  horse  at  full  gallop  on  the  road 
told  us  the  messenger  was  nigh.  In  another  moment, 
puffed  and  blown,  and  digging  the  snow  from  his 
eyes  and  ears,  the  orderly  stepped  into  the  hut  and 
told  his  message. 

"The  general,"  he  said,  "wishes  the  Englishman 
to  stay  the  night  at  Deligrad.  The  parlementaire 
may  go  back,  and  if  hostilities  recommence  in  the 
interim,  the  Englishman  shall  have  a  safe-conduct 
through  Serbia." 

I  clung  to  the  Turkish  parlementaire  in  spite  of  the 
general's  proffered  hospitality.  The  Serbian  I  had 
befriended  evinced  his  gratitude  by  effusively  kissing 
my  hand  again  and  again,  and  we  then  hurried  back 
into  the  neutral  zone. 

Before  night  had  well  set  in  my  sailor  friend  and 
I  were  enjoying  the  hospitality  of  the  Pasha's  offi- 
cers, and  next  morning  found  us  returning  to  Nish 
after  many  cordial  expressions  from  my  would-be 
executioner  of  my  pleasant  visit  and  hopes  that  I 
would  renew  it.  After  due  consideration  of  this 
matter,  I  eventually  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
would  not.  For  one  of  the  few  Latin  quotations 
I  remember  seemed  to  write  itself  in  the  snow — 
Nusquam  tuta  fides. 

After  making  my  way  back  to  Constantinople, 
I  met  one  night  at  the  Viscountess  Strangford's 
hospital  at  Tartar  Bazarjik  the  famous  American 
war  correspondent  for  the  New  York  Herald,  the 
late  Januarius  Aloysius  MacGhan,  who  had  recently 

53 


THE  DEVIL  AND    THE  DEEP   SEA 

filled  all  Europe  with  horror  at  his  powerful  descrip- 
tions of  the  atrocities  perpetrated  on  the  Bulgarians 
by  the  Bashi-Bazouks.  He  was  very  keen  on  my 
seeing  the  village  of  Batac,  where  nearly  the  whole 
of  the  inhabitants  had  been  wiped  out  by  the  Turks. 
He  so  impressed  me  with  his  dramatic  story  that  I 
decided  to  make  the  journey  into  the  mountains  in 
spite  of  the  bitterness  of  the  weather. 

I  spent  the  night  before  I  left  with  a  philanthropic 
Englishman  who  had  come  out,  like  the  viscountess, 
to  disburse  funds  collected  in  England  for  the  pur- 
pose of  erecting  shelters  for  the  houseless  Bulgarians. 
As  we  sat  down  to  dinner  in  his  cheerless  little  hut 
I  noticed  certain  bottles  in  the  corner  of  the  room 
that  gave  at  once  an  atmosphere  of  comfort  to  the 
place.  "Ah!"  said  he,  noting  the  direction  of  my 
glance,  "that's  of  my  own  growing — " 

"You  make  this  champagne  yourself?"   I   asked. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  filling  my  tumbler  with  the 
sparkling  beverage.  "It's  a  very  light  wine  manu- 
factured for  my  personal  use.  I  am  glad  you  seem 
to  like  it.  I  shall  be  most  happy  if  you  will  permit 
your  servant  to  pack  three  bottles  in  your  kit  when 
you  start  to-morrow.  Their  contents  will  cheer  and 
warm  you  on  your  cold  journey  up  the  Balkans." 

I  expressed  my  reluctance  in  reducing  his  store 
by  such  a  quantity,  but  my  host's  persuasive  man- 
ner was  overpowering,  and  I  easily  succumbed — 
the  more  so  as  it  was  rare  to  find  sparkling  wine  of 
such  excellent  quality  in  Rumelia. 

59 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

"You  need  not  be  afraid  to  take  it,"  continued 
my  friend.  "I  have  plenty.  The  wine  does  not  cost 
me  more  than  fifty  cents  a  bottle,  even  when  de- 
livered in  this  ramshackle  old  slum  of  Tartar 
Bazarjik." 

"Very  well,"  I  replied;  "I  will  drink  your  good 
health  to-morrow  night  in  Batac.  By  the  bye,  about 
this  modern  Golgotha — this  dismal  town  of  blood 
and  murder.  Are  the  stories  true,  or  are  they 
tinted  with  something  more  than  local  color?" 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  my  host,  with  a  serious 
expression  on  his  face,  "you  will  find  the  accounts 
of  Turkish  brutality  and  Bulgarian  suffering  true 
enough.  More  than  two-thirds  of  the  population 
of  Batac  have  been  ruthlessly  butchered.  Men, 
women,  young  girls,  and  little  children  have  been 
slain.  Their  bones  still  strew  the  streets  and  alleys 
of  the  town,  and  the  blood  of  many  yet  smears  the 
walls  of  the  old  church,  where,  in  their  terror,  they 
sought  sanctuary  in  vain." 

"Enough  for  to-night,"  cried  I.  "Say  no  more 
my  dear  sir,  or  I  shall  not  sleep,  and  I  must  be  up 
betimes." 

As  I  rose  from  my  chair  my  companion  enjoined 
on  me  not  to  forget  an  engagement  to  dine  with  him 
the  evening  of  my  return. 

"The  kirmakan,  the  mayor,  and  the  corporation 
are  especially  invited  to  meet  you,"  he  added;  "so 
you  must  not  disappoint  us." 

"Rely  on  me,"  I  replied.     "That  is,  of  course,  if 

60 


THE  DEVIL  AND   THE  DEEP  SEA 

I  find  the  objects  of  which  I  am  in  search — the  types 
of  Bulgarian  skulls  which,  you  may  remember,  I 
told  you  I  promised  to  procure  for  my  surgeon 
friend  in  old  England." 

"Have  no  fear  about  that,"  sighed  my  host.  "You 
will  find  in  one  hour  enough  to  stock  the  surgical 
schools  of  Europe." 

I  was  soon  rolled  up  in  my  furs  on  the  ottoman 
in  my  room.  Luckily  I  dreamed  of  sunny  vineyards 
and  my  friend's  good  wine.  No  sickening  nightmare 
of  Bulgarian  horrors  disturbed  my  slumbers  and  I 
was  wakened  by  my  servant  stirring  up  the  live 
charcoal  from  the  well  of  the  metal  brazier  stand- 
ing in  the  center  of  the  room,  to  cook  the  morning 
coffee. 

"Light  another  candle,  Mustapha,"  I  cried.  "And 
in  packing,  take  care  of  those  bottles  with  the  silver 
corks — the  Frankish  sherbet  water.  See  the  straw 
is  thick  around  their  sides,  good  Mustapha.  If  you 
break  them,  by  the  beard  of  the  Prophet  I'll — " 

My  sentence  was  cut  short  by  mine  host  of  the 
previous  evening  shouting  from  an  adjacent  room: 
"Don't  forget  the  third  night  from  now.  You  dine 
with  me,  remember.     Good-by  and  good  luck." 

The  packing  was  soon  done.  Two  hours  before 
the  gray  dawn  stole  over  the  plains  we  were  well 
on  our  way  toward  the  Balkans.  The  shrill  cry 
of  the  muezzins  from  the  minarets  of  Bazarjik, 
calling  all  good   Moslems  to  early  prayer,   pierced 

the  frosty  air  when  we  came  to  our  first  halt,  and  I 

61 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  AD  FEN TU RE 

tumbled  out  of  my  rugs  to  inspect  our  modest 
cortege. 

A  zaptiah,  or  Turkish  mounted  policeman,  acted 
as  our  guide  and  protector.  He  was  a  picturesque 
individual,  wearing  a  Zouave  jacket  and  wide  trou- 
sers of  blue  cloth  embroidered  with  red  braid.  A 
cummerbund  of  red  silk  encircled  his  waist.  Strapped 
round  this  was  a  leathern  belt  crowded  with  deadly 
weapons,  making  him  a  veritable  stalking  armory. 
A  pair  of  richly  mounted  flintlock  pistols  were  stuck 
in  the  upper  pockets  of  the  belt;  below  was  a  yata- 
ghan of  ivory,  studded  with  red  coral  bosses,  and  a 
Winchester  repeating  carbine  hung  across  his  shoul- 
ders. A  fez  with  narrow  turban  bound  tightly  round 
his  head  also  inclosed  his  ears  to  keep  them  from 
frost  bite,  giving  him,  with  his  piercing  black  eyes 
and  clean-cut  nose,  a  rakish,  dare-devil  appearance. 
Abdullah,  for  that  was  his  name,  was  mounted  on 
a  lean  though  high-spirited  horse  of  vicious  aspect, 
due  to  the  mutilation  of  one  of  his  ears. 

An  Italian  photographer  had  volunteered  to  go 
with  me  on  this  journey.  With  his  apparatus  we 
were  ensconced  in  a  carriage  used  generally  for  the 
purpose  of  shifting  the  ladies  of  the  Turkish  harems 
from  one  house  to  another.  It  was  a  gimcrack  sort 
of  an  affair,  built  of  thin  wooden  battens  with  gilt 
panels  and  looking-glass.  We  had  to  squat  a  la 
Turque  on  the  floor,  as  there  was  not  head  room  to 
sit  upright.  This  vehicle  was  drawn  by  two  wiry 
little  steeds.     Following  us  came  my  Armenian  ser- 

62 


THE  DEVIL  AND   THE  DEEP  SEA 

vant  on  a  gayly  caparisoned  mule,  looking  almost 
as  truculent  as  the  guard  with  his  yataghan  and  a 
revolver. 

Soon  the  little  village  wherein  we  were  to  stop 
for  breakfast  gradually  stood  apart,  with  the  early 
morning  sun  upon  it,  from  the  foothills  of  the  moun- 
tains; and  as  the  shadows  of  our  caravan  began  to 
grow  smaller  our  advance  guard  disappeared  in  the 
windings  of  the  main  street  of  the  hamlet. 

In  a  few  minutes  our  wagon  halted  in  the  court- 
yard of  its  principal  khan,  where  we  left  it  till  we 
returned  from  the  snowy  uplands.  For  the  mountain 
journey  we  took  to  the  saddle  and  slowly  toiled  up 
through  the  passes  till  the  setting  sun  began  to  flush 
the  snow  with  crimson. 

On  arriving  on  the  Balkan  plateau  we  found  that 
Batac  was  almost  lost  to  sight  in  the  last  fall  of 
snow;  only  a  few  of  its  blackened  ruins  broke  the 
purity  of  the  drifts.  The  fugitives  that  had  returned 
to  their  ruined  town  sheltered  themselves  from  the 
bitterness  of  the  weather  in  the  cellars,  or  built 
shanties  with  the  debris  of  their  demolished  houses. 
In  the  gloom  of  the  departing  day  these  unhappy 
people  would  steal  to  the  half-gutted  church,  the 
remaining  walls  of  which  were  still  greasy  with  the 
blood  of  the  slain,  and  in  the  ghastly  flicker  of  a  few 
tallow  candles  stuck  on  the  flags  they  would  pray 
or  bewail  the  fate  of  their  dear  ones. 

Our  destination  was  the  wooden  building  called 
the  hospital,  erected  in  the  market  place  by  the  late 

vol.  i. — 5  63 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

Viscountess  Strangford.  Here  we  found  life,  com- 
fort, and  shelter  for  the  night.  Owing  to  the  recent 
fall  of  snow,  which  lay  many  feet  deep,  it  was  a 
difficult  matter  to  find  the  types  of  Slav  skulls  for 
my  surgeon  friend,  so  I  told  my  dragoman  to  start 
the  villagers  on  the  quest. 

Early  next  morning,  when  seated  at  breakfast, 
my  servant  appeared  and  whispered:  "It's  all  right, 
sir.  I  think  I  have  got  what  you  require."  I  im- 
mediately jumped  up  and  hurried  outside,  where  I 
discovered  several  old  ladies  gathered  together  in 
front  of  the  hospital,  holding  out  their  capacious 
aprons,  each  containing  two  or  three  heads.  At 
first  I  was  much  shocked — even  horrified — at  the 
grimness  of  this  wholesale  fulfillment  of  my  request. 
But  I  reflected  that  business  was  business,  so  I 
commenced  negotiating  with  these  ancient  female 
ghouls  by  picking  and  choosing.  At  last  I  decided 
on  three  fine  specimens.  These  lady  philosophers 
cheerfully  parted  with  the  heads  of  their  decapi- 
tated neighbors  for  two  piasters  each,  equivalent 
to  ten  cents  in  our  coin.  The  nurses  of  the  hos- 
pital made  me  a  sack,  in  which  the  grim  relics  were 
packed. 

Toward  midday  we  commenced  our  return  journey 
to  Bazarjik.  In  an  hour  we  were  leaving  the  pla- 
teau and  beginning  to  descend  the  mountain.  Our 
zaptiah  guard  was  leading;  behind  came  the  Italian 
and  my  servant.  Slowly  following,  I  had  started 
a  cigarette  and,  deep  in  thought,  was  enjoying  the 

64 


THE  DEVIL  AND    THE  DEEP   SEA 

fragrance  of  the  Turkish  tobacco,  when  my  reverie 
was  rudely  broken  by  my  horse  pricking  up  his  ears 
and  starting  to  trot  down  the  pass.  The  brute  had 
been  lagging,  and  with  the  best  intention  was  trying 
to  make  up  for  lost  time. 

This,  however,  is  occasionally  disastrous  to  a  rider 
on  a  packsaddle.  The  girths  were  loose,  and  pres- 
ently the  gear  began  to  sway  to  and  fro,  and  I  with 
it.  I  was  swathed  in  furs,  the  weather  was  bitterly 
cold,  and  my  feet  were  plugged  into  the  stirrup 
irons  with  straw.  I  tried  to  keep  my  equilibrium, 
but  the  saddle  slipped  under  the  horse's  belly  and 
I  found  myself  upside  down,  trailing  through  the 
snow.  My  horse,  realizing  at  last  that  something 
was  wrong,  luckily  came  to  a  standstill.  My  com- 
panions, arrested  by  my  shouts,  returned  and  ex- 
tricated me  from  my  novel  position. 

This  was  not  much  of  an  accident,  but  I  became 
a  little  nervous  when  I  discovered  the  cause  of 
losing  my  balance  was  the  sack  of  trophies  tied  to 
the  pommel  of  my  saddle.  I  was  stricken  with  a 
sudden  chill,  and  for  the  first  time  flashed  through 
me  the  thought  that  these  human  heads  were  weird 
things  to  travel  with.  I  shook  myself  and  whistled, 
not  for  want  of  thought,  but  for  thinking.  I  tried 
to  take  an  interest  in  the  frozen  scenery  about, 
but  no,  a  depression  fell  on  me  like  a  pall,  which  I 
tried  in  vain  to  shake  off;  a  superstitious  dread  of 
further  evil  came  over  me. 

"Well,"  I  mused,  looking  at  the  sack,  "you  are 

65 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

for  scientific  purposes — will  perhaps  grace  the  walls 
of  some  surgical  museum  or  hang  in  the  corner  o£ 
an  artist's  studio.  You  will  be  better  off  far  than 
lying  rotting  in  the  snow. 

But  it  was  no  use;  I  could  not  comfort  myself. 
An  inner  voice  seemed  to  whisper:  "Behold  the 
mystic  number  three.  For  each  head  you  have 
taken  from  its  native  place  an  accident  will  befall 
you  to-day.  You  may  chalk  up  Number  One;  now 
look  out  for  Number  Two."  Each  time  I  felt  in- 
clined to  cut  that  sack  and  its  uncanny  contents 
adrift,  this  absurd  idea  got  my  blood  up.  I  resolved 
to  stick  to  my  trophy,  come  what  might. 

I  pushed  on  in  front  with  the  intention  of  giving 
my  horse  no  further  chance  to  lag.  Our  guard  was 
still  leading.  The  sky  was  leaden  and  lowering. 
The  silence  of  the  mountain  region  was  overpowering, 
as  if  every  sound  lay  dead  beneath  the  winding  sheet 
of  snow.  Presently  a  dull  beating  of  wings  was 
heard,  and  up  from  the  valley  sailed  a  huge  eagle. 
I  turned  to  gaze  at  the  majestic  bird.  When  I 
looked  ahead  again  our  guide  had  disappeared. 
Where  on  earth  had  he  got  to?  There  was  the  road 
straight  in  front  of  me. 

I  was  still  moving  on.  Before  I  could  speak  or 
check  him  my  horse  stepped  off  into  space.  I  pulled 
madly  at  the  bridle;  the  animal  simply  pawed  the 
air.  I  went  rolling  over  and  over,  becoming  gradu- 
ally disengaged  from  the  saddle.  Then  all  was  dark- 
ness.    I  found  myself  sinking  into  some  soft  depth. 

66 


THE  DEVIL  AND   THE  DEEP  SEA 

An  icy  coldness  came  over  me  and  I  discovered  I 
was  in  a  snow  hole  which  I  had  made  in  falling 
through  a  drift.  I  had  simply  ridden  over  a  preci- 
pice and  dropped  through  thirty  feet  of  space  into 
a  snow  pack  which  saved  me  from  breaking  my 
bones  on  the  rocks  beneath. 

There  was  a  great  snorting  and  kicking  a  few  yards 
from  me,  and  my  horse  arose,  panting,  from  his 
downy  bed.  My  companions  had  drawn  themselves 
up  on  the  edge  of  the  declivity  above  me  and  were 
merry  with  laughter  at  my  expense.  Anyhow,  I 
had  the  advantage,  for  I  had  stolen  a  march  on 
them  by  making  a  short  cut,  though  a  precipitous 
one,  to  the  road  below.  Our  zaptiah,  when  I  missed 
him,  had  taken  a  narrow  pass  to  the  left,  gaining 
the  main  road  farther  down. 

As  I  dug  the  snow  out  of  my  ears  and  eyes  I  could 
not  help  thinking  that  this  little  incident  must  be 
intended  for  accident  Number  Two;  and  when  I 
readjusted  the  sack  in  front  of  my  saddle  I  was 
more  and  more  determined  to  stick  to  my  trophies. 

On  arriving  at  the  foot  of  the  Balkans  we  dis- 
carded the  horses  for  our  harem  wagon.  It  was 
late  in  the  afternoon  and  we  were  not  more  than 
three  miles  from  the  village  when  darkness  settled 
over  the  plain.  The  wind  freshened  into  a  hurricane 
and  blinding  snow  flurries  swept  over  us.  My 
driver  wished  to  turn  back,  for  the  whole  white 
mantle  covering  the  Maritza  Valley  began  shifting. 
I  insisted  on  an  advance.     Was  I  not  to  dine  in 

67 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

Bazarjik  that  night?  I  would  not  keep  my  friend 
and  his  Turkish  guests  waiting. 

After  a  short  palaver,  in  which  our  zaptiah  joined, 
enforcing  the  argument  by  ominously  touching  the 
hilt  of  his  pistols,  our  coachman  sulkily  lashed  his 
horses  into  a  gallop.  Shortly  the  cart  began  to 
sway  with  the  furious  pace  we  were  making.  With- 
out any  warning  the  right  wheels  suddenly  sank 
and  the  vehicle  quickly  turned  over.  I  found  my- 
self sitting  up  in  a  frame  of  splinters.  I  clenched  my 
teeth  and  savagely  hunted  for  those  heads.  I  found 
them  intact.  As  the  Italian  and  I  shook  ourselves 
free  of  the  glass  and  tinsel  of  that  carriage  I  felt 
as  if  a  great  load  had  been  lifted  from  my  heart. 
Here  was  accident  Number  Three,  and  I  was  safe 
and    sound. 

When  we  had  placed  what  was  left  of  our  gear  on 
the  floor  of  the  wagon — for  the  splintered  glass  and 
panels  had  been  whirled  away  in  the  gale — we  could 
discover  no  trace  of  our  road.  It  had  been  entirely 
obliterated.  I  now  came  to  the  conclusion  that  my 
friend  and  his  kirmakan  would  grow  hungry  if 
they  waited  dinner  for  me  that  evening.  We  wan- 
dered about,  cutting  our  way  through  the  drifts 
simply  to  keep  from  falling  into  that  lasting  slumber 
which  surely  overtakes  one  if  once  the  senses  be- 
come benumbed. 

In  the  early  morning,  wolfhounds  of  a  Bulgarian 
village  signaled  our  approach,  and  the  inhabitants, 
by  placing  out  flaring  torches,  guided  us  to  their 

68 


THE  DEVIL   AND    THE  DEEP   SEA 

huts.  Almost  dead  with  cold,  hunger,  and  fatigue, 
we  fell  eagerly  upon  the  black  bread  and  hot  plum 
brandy  placed  before  us.  We  presently  thawed  out 
and  were  soon  sound  asleep  by  the  side  of  a  maize- 
cone  fire. 

Later  in  the  day  the  storm  ceased.  We  were  put 
on  our  right  track  and  eventually  found  our  way  to 
Tartar  Bazarjik,  where  I  discovered  that  though 
my  philantropic  friend's  turkey  had  been  spoiled  by 
overcooking,  waiting  dinner  for  me,  his  guests,  in 
spite  of  being  Mussulmans,  had  gone  home  satisfied 
and  merry  under  the  influence  of  their  host's  sherbet 
water. 

The  heads  were  packed  and  sent  on  their  way  to 
London  via  Constantinople,  addressed  to  my  surgeon 
friend  at  King's  College  Hospital,  labeled  "Bul- 
garian atrocities." 

They  arrived  safely  in  England  and,  for  all  that 
I  know,  may  have  figured  on  many  a  platform  at 
those  indignation  meetings  which  at  that  time  set 
the  whole  civilized  world  agog. 


Chapter  IV 

A   JOB    IN    A    GROCERY    STORE 

/  become  a  commercial  traveler  and  visit  Rumania — I  am  engaged  as  a 
shopman  and  cross  the  frozen  Pruth — Am  terrified  by  the  presence  of 
the  Great  White  Tsar — /  recover  from  the  shock  and  make  sketches 
of  his  army,  and  return  safely  with  probably  the  most  interesting  budget 
I  ever  collected  for  my  paper — 1  receive  a  birthday  gift  from  the  Russian 
ambassador  at  the  Court  of  St.  James's — /  am  present  at  the  firing  of 
the  first  shot. 

HPHE  armistice  between  Serbia  and  Turkey  de- 
veloped  finally  into  a  peaceful  settlement  of  their 
differences.  Therefore  I  made  up  my  mind,  on  re- 
turning to  Constantinople,  to  penetrate  as  far  as 
I  dared  into  Russia,  to  find  out  if  the  many  rumors 
of  the  Tsar  mobilizing  his  troops  were  true.  I  im- 
mediately shifted  my  quarters  from  the  Bosporus 
across  the  Danube  to  Bucharest. 

Of  course  I  had  to  be  very  wary  on  approaching 
Russia  at  this  moment,  when  the  tension  between 
that  country  and  England  over  Near-Eastern  affairs 
was  becoming  acute;  so,  first  of  all,  I  made  my  way 
to  Jassy,  the  town  nearest  to  the  river  Pruth,  which 
was  then  the  Russo-Rumanian  frontier.  It  was 
necessary   to   drop    my   former   connections,    for   if 

70 


A  JOB  IN  A  GROCERY  STORE 

it  were  discovered  that  I  had  anything  to  do  with 
the  press  my  case  would  be  hopeless  and  probably 
my  immediate  arrest  would  ensue.  I  therefore 
thought  it  would  be  wise  to  change  my  coat,  and  I 
became,  instead  of  a  man  of  war,  a  commercial 
traveler,  or  drummer.  On  arriving  at  Jassy  I  put 
up  at  the  Hotel  Binda.  In  the  smokeroom  of  the 
place  well-to-do  city  men  used  to  congregate  of  an 
evening.  Among  them  was  a  burly-looking  Swede 
who  seemed  to  lead  the  conversation  on  most  topics. 
He  saw  at  once  that  I  was  an  Englishman  and  took 
great  pride  in  airing  his  knowledge  of  the  English 
tongue  before  his  brethren  in  trade. 

We  grew  quite  friendly,  and  after  the  convivial 
meetings  at  the  hotel,  I  would  walk  back  with  him 
to  his  little  store.  We  talked  of  the  recent  atrocities 
in  Bulgaria,  the  attitude  of  England,  the  possibilities 
of  war,  and  the  certainty  that  Russia  was  already 
moving  large  bodies  of  infantry,  cavalry,  and  ar- 
tillery toward  the  frontier. 

One  night  I  told  him  my  real  object  in  coming  to 
Jassy,  and  asked  him  to  assist  me  in  crossing  the 
Russian  frontier. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "that's  not  such  a  difficult 
matter.  It's  the  getting  back,  my  friend,  which  you 
will  find  not  quite  easy." 

"Let  me  get  across  and  I  will  manage  to  wriggle 
back,"  I  laughed. 

"Just  as  you  like.  You  English  are  always  up 
to  some  adventure.     But,"  he  continued,  "if  I  assist 

7i 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

you,  you  must  do  exactly  what  I  tell  you  or  you 
will  possibly  come  to  grief,  and  perhaps  ruin  me 
as  well. 

"First  of  all,  I  will  take  you  on  here  as  my  as- 
sistant. You  must  look  after  my  shop  for  a  few 
days  and  pretend  to  take  a  keen  interest  in  the  busi- 
ness as  the  man  at  the  counter." 

This  I  agreed  to  do,  but  it  was  the  part  of  the 
arrangement  I  did  not  relish,  for  the  Jassy  store  re- 
sembled an  ordinary  English  cheesemonger's, with  an 
oil-and-color-man's  thrown  in.  Pickled  fish,  onions, 
and  dried  caviar  sweated  in  close  proximity  to  Lim- 
burger  cheese,  sauerkraut,  and  many  other  rank- 
smelling  delicacies  which  made  the  atmosphere  sharp 
and  spicy,  and  caused  me  to  feel  very  bilious.  Smok- 
ing was,  mercifully,  not  prohibited  by  my  employer, 
so  the  fumes  of  the  pungent  weed  which  was  between 
my  lips  all  day  made  the  atmosphere  of  the  shop  a 
little  more  tolerable. 

When  my  good  friend  thought  I  had  been  associ- 
ated with  him  long  enough,  he  set  about  his  quarterly 
journey  to  Odessa  to  replenish  his  depleted  store 
and  took  me  with  him  as  his  clerk.  It  was  a  dull, 
gray,  winter's  morning  when  the  Pruth  was  reached. 
The  ice  on  the  river  was  already  two  feet  thick,  and 
the  peasants,  with  their  sleighs  laden  with  goods, 
were  creaking  and  jolting  over  the  rough,  frozen 
floes  and  winding  up  the  opposite  bank  toward  the 
little  log  customhouse.  The  Swede  enjoined  me 
to  keep  close  to  him,  but  there  was  no  necessity  for 

72 


A  JOB  IN  A  GROCERY  STORE 

this  advice.  I  stuck  to  him  like  a  leech,  for  he  held 
the  all-important  passport,  the  lack  of  which  on 
this  jealously  guarded  frontier  meant  detention  and 
perhaps  imprisonment  for  many  a  day.  We  were 
all  herded  like  cattle  for  a  time,  and  then  allowed  to 
file  through  into  the  little  passport  office,  where 
vigilant  Muscovite  douanier  eyed  us  narrowly  before 
returning  our  papers.  I  happened  to  have  an  unlit 
cigarette  between  my  lips,  which  the  officer,  when 
restoring  my  friend's  passport,  immediately  noticed. 
He  at  once  struck  a  heroic  attitude  and,  stretching 
out  his  right  hand,  said,  in  stentorian  tones,  in 
Russian: 

"It  is  forbidden  to  smoke  in  the  presence  of  the 
Isar. 

This  was  interpreted  to  me  by  my  friend.  The 
other  travelers  in  the  little  office  looked  with  blanched 
faces  at  my  unheard-of  audacity.  I  blushed  scarlet 
and  then  felt  myself  grow  cold.  How  was  it  that 
my  friend  had  not  told  me  of  the  close  proximity 
of  so  august  a  personage  as  the  Great  White  Tsar. 
This  piece  of  presumption  on  my  part,  I  thought, 
probably  meant  the  mines  of  Siberia  at  least.  Stag- 
gered by  the  prospect  of  this  awful  calamity,  I  still 
held  the  cigarette  between  my  fingers. 

"Heedless  dolt!"  cried  the  officer,  now  flushed 
with  anger. 

I  stood  stunned  as  the  enormity  of  my  crime 
dawned  on  me. 

"Drop  the  cigarette,"  whispered  my  friend.   Once 

73 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

more  the  officer  roared,  "You  must  not  smoke  in 
the  presence  of  the  Tsar." 

Fearing  to  turn  my  head,  I  followed  his  out- 
stretched arm  with  my  eyes  only,  and  there,  on  the 
stucco  wall,  I  descried  a  wretched  German  oleograph 
portrait  of  Alexander  the  Second. 

I  came  quickly  to  my  senses  and  began  to  titter 
with  laughter.  Presently  I  found  myself  outside  the 
passport  office,  my  Swedish  employer  having  hustled 
me  out  of  the  presence  of  the  irate  Russian  officials, 
intimating  to  them,  with  profuse  apologies,  that  I 
was  a  little  weak  in  the  head. 

"Be  more  careful,  friend,"  whispered  my  com- 
panion. "Suppress  your  mirth,  for  you  are  among 
a  serious  people  who  look  upon  their  ruler  as  next 
to  the  Great  Redeemer.  You  may  smoke  now; 
it  will  quiet  your  nerves  and  probably  stop  that 
infernal  grin  of  yours."  For  I  was  still  merry  over 
that  ghastly  oleograph. 

When  we  arrived  at  Kishenev,  according  to  my 
friend's  instructions,  I  put  up  at  the  Hotel  St. 
Petersburg  while  he  went  on  to  Odessa.  Meantime 
I  found  plenty  of  work  for  both  pen  and  pencil,  as 
the  place  was  packed  with  soldiers  of  all  arms. 

Now  that  I  had  arrived  in  this  Russian  city  the 
difficulty  was  for  me  to  do  any  work.  A  sketchbook 
was  out  of  the  question;  suspicion  would  be  aroused 
at  once,  and  I  should  be  arrested  and  practically 
lost  for  months  to  my  paper.  I  had  to  fall  back  on 
my  thumbnails  and  shirt  cuffs  instead,  and  terribly 

74 


A  JOB  IN  A  GROCERY  STORE 

cold  work  it  was  in  that  bitter  atmosphere,  for  the 
mercury  was  down  far  below  zero  and  trees  on  the 
boulevard  were  sparkling  with  their  covering  of 
frost.  But  for  the  warmth  of  the  steaming  tea 
houses  many  a  time  I  think  I  should  have  frozen 
stiff  in  the  streets.  The  keen  winds  would  pierce 
almost  the  thickest  furs,  and  the  cold  blast  froze 
my  hair  stiff  and  coated  my  mustache  with  a  fringe 
of  snowy  icicles,  when  I  would  rush  into  a  tea 
house  and  thaw  myself  in  its  heated  atmosphere, 
where  from  far  below  zero  one  was  suddenly  plunged 
into  a  temperature  of  seventy  degrees  Fahrenheit. 
These  places  of  entertainment  were  mostly  kept  by 
Jews.  The  walls  were  hung  with  cheap  German 
colored  prints  of  battle  scenes,  in  which  the  Russian 
troops  were  always  victorious,  and  in  all  the  rooms 
was  the  portrait  of  the  Tsar,  which  everybody 
saluted  on  passing.  Lively  tunes  were  wound  out 
of  a  huge  musical  machine  taking  up  one  end  of  the 
principal  saloon,  which  produced  all  the  noise  of 
a  German  band.  The  place  was  reeking  with  the 
fumes  of  Russian  leather  and  rum,  for  that  spirit, 
with  citron  and  sugar,  was  always  served  along  with 
each  pot  of  tea. 

The  concentration  of  troops  on  the  Pruth  was  a 
veritable  mobilization  for  active  service.  The  forces 
already  about  Kishenev  were  being  augmented 
every  day  by  fresh  detachments  of  infantry  and 
cavalry  and  batteries  of  artillery,  all  converging  on 
the    road    which    led    to    Constantinople.      Like    a 

75 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

dammed-up  river,  fed  by  numerous  little  streams, 
ever  swelling  in  volume,  on  the  verge  of  breaking 
into  flood,  was  this  great  army,  making  ready  to 
pour  itself  into  Rumania  and  deluge  Turkey. 

My  visit  to  Kishenev  was  repaying  me  for  my 
trouble,  and  after  each  day's  work  I  would  return 
to  my  hotel  and  dine  comfortably,  feeling  well 
satisfied  with  myself  when  I  collected  my  notes  from 
my  thumb  and  cuffs  and  transferred  them  to  my 
sketchbook,  for  I  had  been  in  the  place  three  days 
and  was  not  even  suspected.  Hitherto  I  had  always 
managed  to  take  my  meals  alone,  to  avoid  conver- 
sation. One  night,  however,  when  I  had  the  table, 
as  usual,  to  myself,  I  noticed  that  my  loneliness  was 
attracting  attention.  Some  officers  at  an  adjacent 
table  were  looking  intently  in  my  direction.  I  grew 
hot  all  over  and  kept  my  eyes  busy  on  the  food 
before  me.  Presently  I  felt  that  one  of  them  was 
crossing  to  my  table,  and  a  moment  later  I  was 
sensible  of  a  tall,  gaunt  figure  standing  at  my  side. 

"Ye'r  an  Englishmon,"  the  tall  figure  whispered, 
but  with  the  unmistakable  accent  of  the  denizens 
of  the  Land  o'  cakes. 

I  lifted  my  eyes  to  the  face  of  a  man  about  six 
feet  two,  with  large  blue  eyes  and  a  big  yellow  beard, 
who  was  dressed  in  a  Russian  infantry  uniform. 

"Pray  sit  down,"  I  replied.  "Yes,  I  am  an 
Englishman,  and,  by  Jove!  you're  a  Scotsman,  and 
wearing  a  uniform  we  Britons  do  not  usually  love. 
How  is  it?" 

7* 


A  JOB  IN  A  GROCERY  STORE 

"A'weel,"  answered  the  Scot,  "though  in  Russian 
uniform."  "I  am  not  a  fighting  man,  but  a  pay- 
master, and  there  are  many  more  of  my  countrymen 
so  employed.  We  have  good  money  and  an  easy 
time.  However,  I  am  still  a  Briton,  though  I  have 
been  in  the  Russian  service  for  twenty  years.  I 
would  not  be  naturalized  and  don't  ever  intend 
to  become  a  Russian,  and  that  is  why  I  was  so  glad 
to  meet  a  Britisher.  Now  what  are  you  doing  here? 
My  Russian  friends  at  the  other  table  are  rather 
suspicious  and  want  to  know  who  and  what  you 
are. 

"Can  I  trust  you?"  I  whispered. 

He  nodded  his  head. 

"Then,  my  newly  made  friend,  they  must  not 
know  who  I  am,  or  I  shall  be  imprisoned  or  sent  back 
to  Rumania  sooner  than  I  desire.  I  am  a  newspaper 
correspondent." 

He  gave  a  gasp  of  surprise.  "  How  on  earth  did  you 
get  across  the  frontier?" 

"Listen.  Ask  the  waiter  for  another  packet  of 
cigarettes  and  some  more  kiimmel,  there's  a  good 
fellow,  and  I  will  tell  you  my  story." 

After  I  had  finished  he  chuckled  to  himself.  "You 
deserve  to  get  out  of  this,"  said  he.  "I  will  rejoin 
my  friends  and  allay  their  suspicions.  Have  no  fear, 
but  take  my  advice — clear  off  as  soon  as  you  can." 

As  luck  would  have  it,  my  Swede  arrived  from 
Odessa  by  the  last  train  that  evening.  At  ten  the 
next   morning  we   recrossed   the   frontier.     On   the 

77 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

same  afternoon  we  were  safely  in  Jassy,  and  by 
the  night  mail  I  was  on  the  way  to  England  with 
probably  one  of  the  most  important  budgets  of 
sketches  and  correspondence  I  have  ever  collected 
for  my  paper. 

The  inevitable  came  quickly  enough.  I  was  at 
home  only  a  couple  of  months  before  Russia,  know- 
ing England  would  stay  her  hand,  owing  to  the 
attitude  of  Mr.  Gladstone  and  his  bitter  enmity 
toward  the  "assassin  on  the  throne,"  took  the  chance 
of  declaring  war  against  the  Turk — ostensibly  on  the 
behalf  of  Bulgaria,  but  not  a  little  on  her  own.  I 
hurried  at  once  to  the  Russian  Embassy  to  get  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  the  military  authorities  in 
St.  Petersburg.  I  sent  in  my  card  to  Count  Schou- 
valoff,  the  urbane  and  courteous  Muscovite  ambassa- 
dor, who  was  at  home,  just  finishing  his  coffee  and 
rolls,  and  would  see  me  in  a  few  minutes. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  Your  Excellency,  a  good  deal.  I  desire  a 
letter  from  you  to  the  Russian  military  authorities. 
I  want  to  be  with  that  army  when  it  invades  Turkey. 
I  have  been  with  the  Serbian  forces  during  the 
recent  campaign." 

"Yes,"  he  nodded.  "I  have  seen  your  sketches 
in  the  Graphic.  But  I  can  do  nothing  for  you,  I  am 
sorry  to  say.  Only  this  morning  I  received  this  letter 
from  my  government,  telling  me  not  to  give  any 
more  letters  to  the  representatives  of  the  British 
press." 

78 


A  JOB  IN  A  GROCERY  STORE 

I  was  so  upset  at  this  news  that  I  was  compelled 
to  sit  down  and  could  almost  have  cried  with  vex- 
ation. Here  was  my  career  suddenly  come  to  an 
end  at  the  most  critical  moment,  for  the  Serbian 
war  was  simply  the  lever  de  rideau;  the  first  act  of 
the  real  drama  was  about  to  begin  and  I,  apparently, 
would  not  be  in  it.  The  amiable  ambassador,  seeing 
my  distress,  said,  "I  really  think  you  ought  to  go,  for 
I  am  certain  that  our  general  staff  know  your  work; 
but  what  am  I  to  do? 

"Ah!"  he  suddenly  cried,  "I  have  it.  Of  course, 
this  letter  ought  to  have  been  delivered  to  me  to- 
morrow. I  was  not  supposed  to  be  at  the  Embassy 
this  morning.    It  is,  therefore,  more  or  less  unofficial." 

I  sprang  to  my  feet.  I  felt  inclined  to  embrace 
him  in  true  Russian  fashion  by  kissing  him  on  both 
cheeks. 

With  a  joyous  laugh,  he  continued,  "I  can,  after 
all,  give  you  a  note  to-day." 

He  rang  a  bell,  his  secretary  answered  it,  then  a 
few  words  in  Russian,  and  some  minutes  later  a 
letter  was  in  front  of  him  which  he  signed,  with  a 
smile,  and  passed  to  me.  Then  a  handshake  and 
"Bonne  chance"  and  I  was  out  on  the  street  with 
the  most  welcome  birthday  present  I  ever  received, 
for  it  happened  to  be  the  23d  of  April,  my  natal 
day,  and  St.  George's  for  Holy  Russia  and  Merry 
England,  too — the  day  the  Russians  crossed  their 
frontier  into  Turkey  and  set  the  ball  rolling  in  1877. 

I  left  by  the  night's  mail  for  Rumania  and  met 

vol.  1.— 6  79 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

the  Russian  army  as  its  advance  guard  crossed  the 
river  Pruth.  I  saw  the  first  shot  fired  into  Briela 
from  a  Turkish  monitor  on  the  Danube.  It  went 
through  the  mud  wall  of  a  house  and,  unexploded, 
stuck  its  nose  in  the  back-yard  soil.  With  that 
single  shot  Russia  and  Turkey  were  at  each  other's 
throats,  and  the  struggle  became  bloody  enough 
before  the  end. 


Chapter  V 

THE    BATTLE    OF   PLEVNA 

Feasting  with  the  Tsarevitch,  not  wisely,  but  too  well,  I  return  under  guard 
— My  pony  faces  his  first  fire — Forbes  and  I  start  to  find  the  Russian 
army — A  cold  reception — Fasting  and  fighting — We  find  the  former 
less  exciting  than  the  latter — A  Franco- Russian  acquaintance — The 
Russian  advance  on  Plevna — The  morning  mist — The  battle  panorama 
— My  pony  is  restless — Our  high  hopes  are  wrecked — The  retreat — / 
am  given  up  for  lost — My  race  for  the  mail — /  return  intact,  but  am 
taken  for  a  spook — Soldiers  and  artists — A  prince  for  a  guide. 

'"THE  last  days  of  the  month  of  July,  1877,  were  for 
*■  me  full  of  adventure.  For  the  fourth  week 
opened  with  a  banquet  and  closed  with  probably 
the  bloodiest  battle  of  the  campaign,  and  I  was 
present  at  both. 

When  His  Imperial  Highness  the  Tsarevitch  ar- 
rived in  Briela  to  take  over  the  command  of  the 
army  of  the  river  Lorn,  the  generals  of  its  respective 
brigades  gave  a  grand  banquet  in  his  honor,  and  I 
happened  to  be  the  only  correspondent  in  camp  at 
the  time.  With  their  usual  courtesy  to  foreigners, 
the  Russian  officers  invited  me  to  the  feast. 

We  dined  in  a  large  marquee,  in  the  corner  of 
which  was  a  table  spread,  a  la  russe,  with    caviar, 

81 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

anchovies,  dried  herrings,  gherkins,  and  eggs.  That 
potent  spirit,  vodka,  was  taken  as  an  appetizer. 

On  the  arrival  of  the  Tsarevitch  I  was  presented 
to  him,  and  he  at  once  courteously  took  me  to  the 
side  table,  where  we  ate  an  egg  and  drank  a  glass 
of  vodka  together.  He  then  bade  one  of  his  aids, 
who  spoke  English  more  fluently  than  himself,  take 
charge  of  me.  We  sat  down  to  dinner — some  fifty 
officers — at  a  long  table  in  the  center  of  the  tent, 
groaning  with  good  cheer.  In  fact,  French  cooks 
had  come  all  the  way  from  Bucharest,  loaded  with 
delicacies  supplied  by  the  best  restaurateurs  of 
"the  little  Paris  of  the  East."  The  wines  were  of 
the  choicest  French  and  Rhenish  brands,  and  there 
was  also  the  vin  du  pays,  red  and  white,  in  large 
earthernware  jars. 

We  commenced  the  meal  with  the  zakuska  at  the 
sideboard  about  noon.  At  3  p.m.  we  arrived  at  the 
tea-and-coffee  stage.  The  sun  beat  with  an  almost 
tropical  intensity  through  the  single  canvas  roof 
of  the  tent;  and  what  with  the  high  temperature  and 
the  heat  of  the  wine  within  the  guests,  a  rollicking 
gayety  by  this  time  pervaded  the  whole  party. 
Liqueurs  were  now  served,  but  as  there  were  no  small 
glasses,  curccao  and  kiimmel  were  handed  round  in 
tumblers.  Snatches  of  wild  Circassian  and  Slav 
song  burst  from  the  throats  of  many,  and  soon  an 
incoherent  babble  reigned. 

About    this    period    of  the   feast   the   Tsarevitch 

thought  it  wise  to  retire.     His  departure  brought 

82 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

sighs  of  relief  from  various  parts  of  the  marquee, 
and  the  babble  grew  louder  and  louder.  At  least 
three  of  the  guests,  who  had  been  dozing  in  their 
chairs,  now  made  themselves  more  comfortable  by 
slipping  under  the  table  and  falling  fast  asleep  on 
the  sward  beneath. 

I  had  not  yet  arrived  at  that  somnolent  stage,  for, 
having  taken  care  to  drink  sparingly,  I  was  yet 
fairly  coherent  and  consistent  in  my  movements. 
This  unsociable  attitude  on  my  part  gave  evident 
annoyance  to  the  rest  of  the  company.  An  old 
Circassian  general  had  been  looking  at  me  with  un- 
mistakable disgust  for  some  time,  and  eventually 
becoming  quite  angry  at  my  provoking  sobriety,  he 
at  last,  with  a  few  of  his  brother  officers,  conspired 
to  bring  about  that  state  of  inebriety  which  pre- 
vailed with  the  majority  of  the  company.  A  Cossack 
orderly  was  called  in,  and  a  low  whisper  within  the 
trooper's  ear  from  the  aged  warrior  sent  him  on  his 
devilish  errand. 

Presently  he  returned  with  a  basket.  Shouts  of 
approval  burst  from  the  little  army  of  conspirators 
who  had  rallied  round  the  aged  officer.  With  many 
chuckles  and  uncertain  hand  the  sly  old  general 
slowly  produced  from  the  basket  a  half-dozen  quarts 
of  Guinness's  Dublin  Stout! 

When  the  six  black  bottles  stood  on  the  table 
each  conspirator  seized  one  and,  flourishing  it  aloft, 
shouted,  "Here's  British  drink  for  the  Englishman!" 

I  almost  turned  faint  at  the  prospect  of  adding 

83 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

this  "British  drink,"  as  they  called  it,  to  the  many 
nationalities  of  drink  already  within  me.  I  looked 
at  the  grinning  faces  of  the  officers  in  despair. 
There  was  no  help  for  it.  The  aged  chief  and  his 
friends  were  slowly  lifting  the  bumpers  of  the 
frothy,  gelatinous,  tepid  fluid — for  it  had  been  lying 
many  hours  exposed  to  the  sun — to  their  lips.  The 
officers  who  had  already  succumbed  to  overindul- 
gence in  previous  potations  were  roughly  roused  from 
their  grassy  beds  to  join  the  toast  to  the  English 
guest.  It  is  the  custom  of  the  Muscovite  never  to 
take  the  goblet  from  his  lips  till  the  very  dregs  are 
reached.  This  custom  I  knew  only  too  well.  Stand- 
ing up  with  a  ghastly  smile,  I  seized  the  proffered 
goblet  and  lowered  its  contents  till  naught  but  the 
foam  remained. 

An  escort  of  four  sturdy  Cossacks  saw  me  and  the 
aged  general  safely  to  our  respective  billets,  keeping 
us  steady  on  our  horses  by  prodding  us  with  the 
butt  end  of  their  lances.  The  sun  was  setting  as  I 
fell  into  a  deep  and  unbroken  slumber  on  the  soft 
cushions  of  the  ottoman,  but  it  was  the  darkest 
hour  before  dawn  when  I  suddenly  awoke  from  my 
slumbers  with  a  strong  conviction  gradually  creeping 
over  me  of  some  catastrophe. 

An  angry  voice  was  loudly  anathematizing  me. 
Forbes,  who  had  just  ridden  in  from  the  Danube, 
where  he  had  sent  off  a  budget  of  war  news,  had 
stumbled  over  my  body  in  the  center  of  the  room, 
had  struck  a  light  to  see  what  had  happened,  and 

84 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

was  vigorously  shaking  me  into  a  sitting  posture, 
inquiring  why  I  had  slept  in  my  spurs  and  for  what 
reason  I  preferred  the  hard  floor  to  the  soft  pillows 
of  the  ottoman. 

A  skirmish  shortly  after  this  banquet  resulted  in 
an  adventure  in  which  I  was  the  principal  actor,  and 
which,  even  if  I  had  been  still  under  the  influence 
of  the  previous  day's  festivity,  would  have  sobered 
me.  In  the  afternoon  we  had  a  slight  reconnaissance 
across  the  river  Lorn  to  find  out  how  strong  the  enemy 
might  be  at  that  point,  where  we  were  about  to 
cross  in  force.  We  kept  a  battery  of  field  guns, 
supported  by  infantry,  masked  in  an  emplacement 
on  a  natural  glacis  of  plowed  fields  trending  toward 
the  river,  while  some  of  our  cavalry  swam  the 
stream  with  their  horses,  under  cover  of  the  infantry 
and  artillery. 

I  had  advanced  with  the  Russian  skirmishing  line 
toward  the  river  when  the  Russian  general,  observing 
a  strong  body  of  the  enemy's  cavalry  about  to  work 
round  the  flank  of  our  troopers  who  had  just  landed, 
thought  he  would  give  our  men  breathing  time  to 
get  into  fighting  trim  by  attracting  the  enemy's 
attention  with  a  few  shells  from  our  emplaced  guns. 
The  Turks  were  already  engaged  with  our  infantry 
in  a  sharp  fusillade  across  the  river,  at  which  my 
pony  was  already  showing  considerable  resentment. 
I  was  about  to  dismount  and  seek  cover,  for  the 
little  beast  was  dancing  and  bucking  vigorously, 
when  suddenly  our  shells  began  to  whistle  overhead, 

85 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

and  this  new  noise  was  quickly  followed  by  their 
explosion  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river  and  the 
sharp  blast  of  the  cannon  behind  us. 

My  horse  stiffened  himself  and  stood  still,  evi- 
dently thinking  out  the  novel  situation.  Then  sud- 
denly, without  the  slightest  warning,  he  turned 
sharply  round,  took  the  bit  between  his  teeth,  and 
bolted.  I  was  so  taken  by  surprise  that  before  I 
could  recover  myself  I  found  we  were  halfway  up 
the  glacis,  and  swift  as  the  wind  I  was  carried  right 
into  the  teeth  of  the  Russian  guns.  Crash!  Crash! 
Whiz!   Whiz!   came  shell  after  shell. 

As  I  neared  the  top  of  the  glacis  I  could  feel  the 
whirlwind  of  the  projectiles  as  they  clove  the  air, 
and  the  lurid  blaze  of  the  guns  almost  blinded  me. 
I  lay  as  flat  as  I  could  along  my  pony's  neck  till  the 
black  mud  curtains  of  the  emplacement  suddenly 
barred  my  path,  when  I  rose  in  my  saddle,  and  in 
another  moment  we  cleared  the  parapet  and  plumped 
right  into  the  center  of  the  battery,  scattering  the 
gunners. 

A  moment  later,  flushed  and  breathless,  I  found 
myself  standing  by  the  side  of  my  trembling  little 
horse,  trying  to  explain,  in  snatches  of  Russian, 
French,  German,  and  English,  to  the  general  and  his 
staff",  who  had  ridden  up  to  the  emplacement,  the 
reason  for  my  charging  the  Russian  guns. 

Barely  two  days  after  these  little  incidents  Forbes 
and  I  were  on  our  way  to  join  Baron  Krudener's 

army  marching  on  Plevna,  where  the  Turks  under 

86 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

Osman  Pasha  had  lately  made  so  bold  a  stand  that 
the  Russian  force  had  been  obliged  to  retire  with  con- 
siderable loss  after  a  futile  attempt  to  enter  the 
town.  It  was  necessary  to  leave  our  cart  and  stores 
with  our  servants  behind  us,  for  we  could  not  be 
hampered  with  impedimenta  of  that  kind  if  we 
desired  to  be  in  time  for  Krudener's  onslaught. 
We  were,  therefore,  often  on  short  commons,  for 
the  villages  en  route  had  been  stripped  of  everything 
edible  by  the  advancing  army,  and  we  could  find 
only  an  occasional  cake  of  maize  bread  and  a  few 
eggs  to  keep  us  from  famishing. 

We  arrived,  sick  with  hunger,  about  sunset  at 
the  Bulgarian  village  of  Karagac-Burgaski,  where 
Schakofsky,  commanding  the  left  wing  of  the  Rus- 
sian division,  was  quartered. 

After  shaking  the  dust  from  our  clothes  and  mak- 
ing a  rough  toilet,  we  presented  ourselves  at  the  door 
of  the  general's  hut  and  were  soon  ushered  into  the 
compound  at  the  back,  where  Schakofsky  was  seated 
on  a  camp  stool,  talking  to  two  young  aids  who 
were  standing  at  the  salute  in  front  of  him.  On 
seeing  us  he  motioned  us  to  approach,  and  Forbes 
at  once  presented  a  letter  of  introduction  which  the 
chief  of  the  Emperor's  staff  had  given  him.  The 
general  took  the  envelope  and  looked  at  us  both  with 
an  air  of  sullen  tolerance  as  he  broke  the  seal  and 
read  the  contents.  A  grim  smile  came  over  his  face 
as  he  slowly  turned  the  note  over  with  his  finger  and 
thumb  and  carefully  examined  the  seal. 

87 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "it  is  lucky  for  you 
to  have  brought  this  note,  for  I  have  no  alternative 
but  to  allow  you  to  remain;  otherwise  I  should  have 
requested  you  to  quit  the  camp  at  once." 

While  he  was  making  this  curt  and  inhospitable 
speech  a  Cossack  servant  was  busily  engaged  in 
laying  a  white  cloth  on  a  rough  table  composed  of 
the  panels  of  a  door  which  rested  on  two  empty 
wine  kegs.  These  proceedings  riveted  our  attention, 
but  as  we  wistfully  glanced  with  devouring  eyes 
at  the  articles  of  food  placed  on  the  table,  the  general 
dispelled  any  hope  we  might  have  had  of  the  prospect 
of  breaking  our  fast  at  his  board,  by  quietly  saying: 

"Gentlemen,  I  am  about  to  dine.    Good  evening." 

We  saluted,  and  sorrowfully  went  on  our  way. 
For  an  hour  we  hunted  the  village  for  food  to  ap- 
pease the  ravenous  craving  within  us;  but  finding 
none,  we  at  last  threw  our  weary  limbs  on  the  straw 
floor  of  an  unoccupied  tent,  and,  to  relieve  the  pinch 
of  hunger  hitched  in  our  belts  and  smoked  till  we 
eventually  fell  asleep.  I  dreamed  of  the  Briela 
banquet,  of  luscious  viands,  and  of  all  the  delicacies 
of  the  season,  till  I  awoke  at  dawn  with  a  hunger 
which  was  simply  appalling.  Turning  over  on  my 
side,  I  discovered,  within  an  inch  of  my  nose,  a 
wooden  bowl  brimful  of  eggs.  I  sat  up,  rubbed  my 
eyes,  and  shook  myself  to  see  if  I  was  really  awake. 
I  looked  at  the  precious  sight  once  more,  fearing  that 
it  might  still  be  only  one  of  the  many  fantasies  of 
my  night's   dreans.      I   stretched   forth   my   hand, 

88 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

clutched  the  bowl,  and,  finding  it  real,  gave  a  cry  of 
satisfaction.  They  were  eggs — eight  of  them,  and 
warm  from  the  pot! 

A  loud  laugh  rang  through  the  tent,  and  a  voice 
cried:  "Now,  Villiers,  don't  be  greedy.  Leave  some 
for  me." 

It  was  Forbes.  I  discovered  that  my  dear,  good 
friend,  in  renewing  his  search  for  food  at  dawn, 
had  found  the  eggs  and  had  refrained  from  breaking 
his  fast  until  he  had  seen  the  full  effect  that  the 
sight  of  so  large  and  satisfactory  a  meal  would  have 
on  his  half-starved  companion. 

After  this  frugal  breakfast  we  started  with  the 
army  on  its  final  march  toward  Plevna,  tramping 
along  bad  roads  and  through  deeply  furrowed  fields 
till  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  we  came  to  a  halt 
at  our  camping  ground.  The  staff  tents  were  pitched 
in  a  stubbled  maize  field  and  one  of  the  officers,  who 
was  attached  to  the  division  as  aide-de-camp  of  the 
Tsar,  came  up  to  us.  We  must  have  still  looked 
hungry,  for  he  said: 

"You  have  not  had  much  meat  to-day,  I  know; 
therefore,  if  this  poor  fare  is  of  any  service  to  you, 
take  it  with  pleasure."  He  then  produced  from  his 
trousers  pocket  a  lump  of  dried  meat  and  a  large 
onion.  "Later  on,  when  the  cooks  set  to  work, 
come  into  my  tent  and  have  some  bouillon." 

We  heartily  thanked  him,  and  we  also  found  his 
word  good  for  the  soup. 

During  the  evening  it  began  to  rain,  making  the 

89 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

field  in  which  we  were  camped  a  perfect  quagmire. 
About  midnight  a  Jew  sutler  arrived,  and  we  bought 
from  him  some  raw  sausage  and  a  pint  of  spirit. 
With  these  rations  we  felt  well  supplied  for  any- 
emergency  till  Plevna  was  captured. 

When  the  reveille  sounded,  as  it  had  ceased  rain- 
ing, I  lifted  the  fly  of  my  tent  to  look  at  the  morning, 
and  saw  a  quaint  figure  standing  out  against  the 
sky.  It  was  a  tall,  eccentric-looking  man,  in  pink 
silk  pajamas,  with  a  monocle  in  his  left  eye,  who  was 
slowly  stirring  a  steaming  glass  of  tea  with  a  silver 
spoon.  He  was  gingerly  standing  with  bare  feet 
on  a  small  mat  of  wet  straw  which  his  servant  had 
collected  from  the  stubble  around  to  prevent  his 
master  from  soiling  his  feet  with  the  thick,  clayey 
mud  which  oozed  about  him.  He  continued  stirring 
his  tea  until  his  monocled  eye  glanced  on  me,  when 
he  good-naturedly  handed  me  the  cup. 

"Take  it!  Take  it!"  he  drawled.  "There's  plenty 
more,  my  friend,"  and  his  servant,  who  was  tending 
a  steaming  samovar  a  few  yards  away,  at  once 
brought  another  glass. 

"Well,"  said  my  newly  made  acquaintance,  stretch- 
ing himself  and  yawning,  and  turning  his  glass  eye 
on  the  quagmire  around  him,  "this  is  beastly. 
Why  did  I  ever  leave  Paris  to  come  to  this  infernal 
hole?" 

As  I  gazed  at  him  in  some  surprise  he  lit  a  cigarette 
and  continued: 

"You  see,  my  dear  sir,  though  I  am  a  Russian,  I 

90 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

am  almost  a  Frenchman.  Lived  in  Paris  nearly 
all  my  life,  and  this  sort  of  thing" — looking  over  the 
cheerless  fields  and  waving  his  hand — "is  beastly, 
absolument!" 

As  I  made  no  comment,  he  drawled  on,  "Then 
why  did  I  leave  France?  you  would  say.  Well,  you 
see,  patriotism  was  the  prime  incentive.  I  left  the 
army  when  I  was  only  sous-lieutenanty  and,  having 
resided  in  Paris  ever  since,  I  felt  bound  to  do  some- 
thing for  my  country  when  in  distress,  and  here  I 
am  attached  as  an  extra  nothing-in-particular  to 
Schakofsky's  staff,  and  find  that  all  the  friends  of 
my  early  military  career  are  either  dead  or  full- 
blown generals,  and  the  latter,  when  they  see  me, 
no  doubt  think  I  am  very  much  in  the  way.  For  I 
have  no  special  duty,  and,  in  fact,  why  am  I  here? 
God  only  knows!" 

He  then  dropped  his  eyeglass,  gave  a  deep  sigh, 
and  swallowed  his  tea.  The  Parisian-Russian  and 
I  became  great  friends  and  we  saw  a  good  deal  of 
each  other  during  this  memorable  day. 

The  morning  had  broken  chilly.  Mist  still  clung 
to  the  sodden  ground.  So  dense  was  it  that  on 
my  joining  Schakofsky's  staff  one  of  his  aides-de- 
camp turned  to  me  and  said:  "This  is  excellent! 
For  foggy  weather  is  a  good  omen  for  Russians." 

I  remembered  a  certain  gray  morning  at  Inker- 
man  that  I  had  read  about,  and  should  have  liked 
to  know  whether  the  Russians  were  of  the  same 
opinion  then.     But  I  said  nothing. 

9i 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

We  had  not  approached  far  on  the  march  before 
a  low  "Boom!"  trembled  through  the  fog. 

'"Ha,  mon  cher  Villiers!"  said  my  friend  with  the 
monocle,  who  had  at  that  moment  trotted  up  to 
me.  "Listen!  Now  ze  ball  is  about  to  open. 
Listen!" 

I  looked  at  him  with  rather  a  grim  smile.  The 
pane  still  coldly  glittered  in  his  left  eye.  I  thought 
of  his  silk  pajamas,  his  silver  tea  set,  and  the  many 
Parisian  fal-lals  which  found  a  place  in  his  tent, 
and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  my  soldier  of  the 
boulevards  had  evidently  not  yet  seen  how  the  shells 
could  waltz  around. 

Boom!  Boom!  went  the  guns  through  the  fog, 
like  muffled  drums.  The  general,  passing  down  the 
lines,  shouted,  "Good  morning,  my  children."  "Good 
morning,  little  father,"  came  the  cry  from  the  men. 
The  troops  now  commenced  deploying  in  columns 
of  double  companies — with  a  rifle  company  in  front 
of  each  battalion — behind  a  ridge  known  as  the 
Radeshova  Heights,  from  the  little  village  of  that 
name  which  nestled  at  its  base. 

The  fog,  which  had  retarded  a  general  movement, 
was  now  lifting,  and  the  gray  battalions  of  Schakof- 
sky's  command  began  to  strip  themselves  of  their 
overcoats  and  to  prepare  for  the  fray. 

At  last,  from  flank  to  flank,  the  order  to  advance 
rang  out  and  the  men  slowly  moved  over  the  crest. 
Then  I  knew  for  the  first  time  that  our  artillery  was 
on  that  ridge,  for  several  guns  suddenly  opened  fire 

92 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

to  cover  the  infantry  as  they  threaded  their  way 
through  the  scrub  on  the  face  of  the  descent  beyond. 
The  Turks  in  the  Plevna  batteries,  observing  this 
movement,  began  dropping  shells  up  on  the  slope 
and  ridge. 

As  the  general,  following  the  infantry  with  his 
staff,  rode  through  Radeshova  village,  a  shell 
skimmed  the  crest  and  burst  a  few  yards  from  us. 
So  near  was  it,  and  no  casualty  taking  place,  I 
thought  I  would  pick  up  a  segment  as  a  souvenir, 
and  dismounted  to  do  so.  When  I  took  the  piece 
in  my  hand  the  metal  was  so  hot  that  I  was  com- 
pelled to  drop  it  in  a  puddle  to  cool. 

On  seeing  me  do  this,  Schakofsky  and  one  or  two 
of  his  staff  laughed,  the  general  muttering  some- 
thing about  the  "eccentricities  of  the  English." 

As  we  rode  on  to  the  ridge  the  last  shroud  of  mist 
lying  over  the  landscape  seemed  suddenly  to  melt 
away.  The  sky  was  bright  and  clear,  and  the  sun's 
rays  soon  dried  our  damp  clothes  and  drove  the 
chill  from  our  bodies.  The  panorama  before  us  was 
a  succession  of  short  valleys,  red  with  an  early 
harvest  of  Indian  corn.  Wet  with  the  recent  rain, 
the  maize  sheafs  gleamed  like  stacks  of  gold  against 
the  purple  of  the  hills. 

Behind  the  scant  cover  of  the  corn  stcc'ic  were 
hidden  dismounted  Cossacks  and  their  horses.  In 
our  immediate  front  was  our  artillery,  then  came  the 
reverse  slope  of  the  ridge — on  which  our  infantry 
were   lying  perdu — shelving   down   into  the  valley 

93 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

of  the  Vid.  But  before  I  could  take  in  further  de- 
tails of  our  position,  whiz!  whiz!  came  two  shells, 
bursting  in  front  and  rear  of  us.  At  least  five  had 
torn  large  furrows  in  the  soil  before  the  general 
gave  the  order  to  dismount  and  seek  cover.  The 
staff  led  their  horses  to  a  thicket  on  the  reverse 
slope.  I. was  to  take  my  horse  there,  too,  and  I 
dismounted  with  considerable  alacrity,  for  the  situ- 
ation was  becoming  serious;  but  when  I  attempted  to 
lead  my  pony  to  the  thicket  he  stood  stock-still. 
With  staring  eyes  and  ears  cocked,  he  appeared  to 
be  listening  to  the  music  of  the  shells  as  they  whis- 
tled round  about  us. 

They  seemed  to  explode  and  blaze  wherever  I 
turned.  The  air  was  rent  with  the  sharp  blast  of 
their  report.  We  were  the  only  living  objects  on 
the  ridge,  and  the  Turks  were  making  better  practice 
every  minute,  but  still  my  pony  would  not  budge 
an  inch.  I  looked  round  in  despair;  I  could  see  the 
members  of  Schakofsky's  staff  grimly  smiling — from 
their  cover — at  my  dilemma.  My  friend  Forbes, 
who  had  also  succeeded  in  gaining  the  thicket, 
shouted,  "Leave  your  horse  and  come  away!" 

I  could  never  make  out  why  I  did  not  follow  his 
advice;  probably  I  thought  how  valuable  the  animal 
might  be  in  a  retreat  if  he  showed  so  much  reluctance 
in  advancing.  Anyway,  I  stuck  to  the  little  brute, 
and  to  soothe  his  nerves  I  kept  patting  his  neck, 
till  at  last  I  succeeded  in  turning  his  tail  toward  the 
Turkish   gunners;  then  softly   rubbing  his  nose,   I 

94 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

attempted  to  lead  him,  and  to  my  joyful  surprise  he 
slowly  followed  me  to  a  corn  stack,  behind  which 
were  two  Cossacks  who  had  been  anxiously  watching 
my  little  adventure  and  who  now  rushed  from  their 
cover  and  embraced  me  in  true  Russian  fashion 
— with  a  kiss  on  each  cheek — so  delighted  they 
seemed  to  be  at  my  miraculous  escape. 

By  this  time  the  guns  on  both  sides  had  begun 
gradually  to  slacken  their  thunder,  and  soon  an 
ominous  silence  reigned.  Wondering  at  the  quietude, 
I  left  my  horse  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the  friendly 
Cossacks,  crept  back  over  the  ridge,  and  rejoined 
my  friend  Forbes. 

This  is  what  I  saw  from  the  thicket — I  jotted  down 
the  details  at  the  time  on  the  side  of  one  of  my  sketch- 
books. Before  us  opened  the  wide  valley  of  the 
Vid;  the  stream  from  which  it  is  named — a  narrow 
band  of  blue — occasionally  flashed  in  the  sunlight 
from  out  some  gentle  undulations  as  it  lazily  wormed 
its  way  through  the  valley.  On  our  right  hand  was 
the  Gravitza  ridge,  on  the  highest  point  of  which 
stood  a  large  redoubt.  Below  this  ridge  and  cross- 
ing the  valley  were  a  series  of  strong  earthworks 
and  redoubts  crowning  the  waves  of  undulating 
country  rolling  toward  the  town  of  Plevna,  which 
was  soon  to  become  famous  as  the  scene  of  one  of 
the  world's  great  battles.  The  red  tiles  of  the  houses 
and  the  metal-topped  minarets  of  its  white  mosques 
were  easily  discernible  nestling  behind  the  formid- 
able works  of  the  Moslems,  which  bristled  from  every 

vol.  i.— 7  95 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

mound  and  every  point  of  vantage  given  by  the 
slightest  irregularity  of  the  ground. 

Even  Krudener's  batteries,  semicircling  the  great 
Gravitza,  hushed  their  distant  growling.  Both  Turks 
and  Russians  paused  in  their  bloody  duel  and  seemed 
breathlessly  awaiting  some  unusual  event. 

From  the  direction  of  Plevna,  passing  close  under 
the  Turkish  advance  works  on  our  extreme  left,  a 
troop  of  scattered  horsemen  tore  at  hard  gallop 
toward  us,  over  the  Loftscha  road,  concentrating 
as  they  neared,  and  drawing  sharp  volleys  from  the 
Turkish  skirmishers.  Cheers  went  out  from  our 
men  lying  under  the  scrub  to  the  wild-looking  band 
of  Russian  Circassians  as  they  ran  the  gantlet  of 
the  Turkish  fire.  In  another  moment  the  dare- 
devil troopers  swept  like  a  slant  of  wind  up  our 
slope  and,  gaining  the  ridge,  passed  Schakofsky, 
who  was  now  returning  the  salute  of  their 
commander. 

As  their  leader  returned  his  saber  and  galloped 
past,  I  saw  that  it  was  young  General  SkobelefF. 
He  had  just  returned  from  a  reckless  reconnaissance 
right  into  the  very  town  itself.  Shot  at  from  the 
roofs  and  windows  of  every  house  in  the  main 
street  of  Plevna,  into  which  he  boldly  penetrated, 
he  had  come  safely  back  with  most  valuable  in- 
formation gained  at  the  cost  of  only  a  few  slight 
casualties. 

The  cannon  on  both  sides  still  held  their  breath. 
When  would  this  extraordinary  silence  be  broken? 

96 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

However,  we  were  not  kept  waiting  long.  From 
among  the  little  group  of  officers  by  whom  the 
general  was  surrounded  several  saluted  him  and 
quickly  galloped  away.  One  dashed  down  the  slope 
and  wound  his  way  through  the  infantry  as  they 
lazily  stretched  themselves  in  the  sun.  Soon  the 
whole  hillside  became  alive  with  bristling  bayonets 
as  the  men  sprang  up  at  the  word  "Forward!" 

In  another  moment  the  Russian  infantry  trudged 
down  the  slope  and  over  the  stubble  fields,  spreading 
out  as  they  advanced  till  their  lines  stretched  right 
across  the  valley  of  the  Vid.  When  halfway  be- 
tween our  ridge  and  the  first  line  of  Turkish  trenches, 
a  little  puff  of  smoke  floated  upward  from  the  field, 
followed  by  a  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle.  Thus  began 
one  of  the  most  memorable  battles  of  the  century. 

Now  in  quick  succession  puffs  of  smoke  shot  up, 
followed  by  the  sharp  crackle  of  musketry  as  the 
Russian  troops  steadily  advanced.  Then  from  both 
the  left  flanks  and  the  right  our  artillery  thundered 
once  more,  and  shrapnel  hailed  its  deadly  splinters 
upon  the  Turkish  trenches.  But  as  yet  there  was 
no  response  from  the  grim  and  silent  lines  of  earth- 
works which  the  Russians  were,  with  unwavering 
lines,  approaching. 

Suddenly  short  puffs  of  smoke  leaped  up  from  the 
fringe  of  the  Turkish  works,  which  quickly  rilled 
their  trenches  in  one  long  flame.  Our  artillery  in- 
creased its  thunder,  and  with  deadly  precision  hurled 
shell    after   shell   into   the   enemy's    position.      But 

97 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

still  the  long,  yellow  flame  played  unbroken,  like 
sunshine  on  the  ocean's  ripple,  along  the  parapet 
of  the  works. 

Soon  the  valley  became  hazy  with  smoke  as  the 
Russian  infantry  passed  within  the  zone  of  the 
Turkish  fire.  Only  the  bright  flashes  from  the 
thousands  of  moving  rifles  told  us  how  the  advance 
was  going  on. 

Presently  from  out  the  stifling  fog  came  limping 
men  with  torn  and  bloody  clothes,  many  without 
their  caps,  and  not  a  few  without  their  rifles.  Some 
dropped,  fainting  by  the  way,  others  unsteadily 
struggled  back  to  the  Radeshova  slope.  Here  and 
there  were  little  groups  of  men  carrying  maimed 
comrades.  Up  over  our  ridge  came  struggling  one 
of  these  groups;  two  soldiers,  slightly  hurt,  were 
carrying  a  less  fortunate  comrade,  who  groaned  from 
out  the  folds  of  a  blanket  fixed  stretcherwise  across 
their  rifles. 

A  dark  liquid  slowly  dripped  from  the  saturated 
blanket  and  marked  a  bloody  trail  down  to  the  vil- 
lage behind  the  ridge,  where  the  doctors  had  placed 
the  first-aid  station.  The  dark  red  track  grew  wider 
every  moment,  for  the  trail  was  so  closely  followed 
by  other  bearers  that  the  path  could  easily  be  traced 
right  across  the  valley. 

Wave  after  wave  of  Russians  steadily  fed  the 
straggling  front,  and,  broken  by  the  terrible  hail 
from  the  trenches,  sowed  the  field  with  little  heaps 
of  dead  and  dying.    As  the  black-and-white  dots — 

98 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

for  the  men  were  wearing  their  dark-green  tunics 
and  white  trousers — crept  nearer  and  nearer  the 
trenches  they  seemed  to  split  up  into  small  groups, 
and  soon  in  their  front  sharp  flashes  of  light  gleamed 
for  a  moment  as  their  officers  waved  their  swords 
and  shouted  to  the  men  to  close. 

For  a  time  they  hovered  hesitatingly,  like  hornets 
uncertain  where  to  thrust  their  sting.  Presently  a 
small  number  of  the  more  reckless  rushed  the  first 
work,  then  a  sound,  half  yell,  half  cheer,  was  wafted 
across  the  valley  as  the  rest  of  the  advance  dashed 
on.  The  foremost  immediately  fell,  but  in  spite  of 
the  deadly  fire  belching  from  the  parapet,  the  re- 
mainder pushed  forward. 

On  these  few  men  the  whole  field  seemed  to  rally, 
and  a  rush  was  made  to  swell  the  bristling  torrent 
which  now  surged  up  over  the  redoubt.  We  could 
see  the  sun  glinting  for  a  moment  on  the  bayonets 
of  the  men  as  they  were  brought  to  the  charge. 
Then  the  carnage  of  close  quarters  began  to  dull 
the  steel,  and  a  confused  babel  of  yells  and  curses 
came  up  from  the  valley. 

The  staff  at  this  time  was  standing  near  Forbes, 
who  was  seated  on  a  stone,  busily  scribbling  his  notes 
of  the  fight  in  a  pocket  book.  "Villiers,"  said  he, 
"we  shall  dine  in  Plevna  to-night." 

"Yes,"  certainly,"  said  my  Parisian-Russian 
friend,  who  was  standing  near,  supplementing  his 
monocle  with  a  binocular.  "We  shall  sup  in  Plevna 
to-night.    Look  at  that,  mon  cher  Villiers!    See  how 

99 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

brave  our  fellows  use  ze  steel.  We  are  very  good, 
we  Russians,  at  ze  bayonet.  Here,  take  my  binocu- 
lar— you  will  see  better." 

It  was  a  glass  with  convertible  lenses  marked, 
"marine,"  "field,"  and  "opera."  I  happened  to 
have  turned  it  to  the  last.  My  friend  pointed  out 
my  mistake,  and  with  a  deep  sigh,  said,  "Ah!  That 
reminds  me  of  the  last  time  I  looked  through  it  at 
ze  Grand  Opera  de  Paris." 

Pong!  Burr-r-r-r!  And  a  shell  split  into  segments 
a  few  yards  from  us.  My  friend  yawned  and  con- 
tinued, "Surely  you  remember  ze  saison  of  1876, 
and  ze  belle  'premiere  danseuse,  eh?" 

Cr-r-ash!  came  another  shell.  Still  with  perfect 
calmness  he  went  on,  "I  mean  ze  petite  brunette 
wiz  ze  nez  retrousse." 

Well! 

A  few  yards  in  our  rear  a  shower  of  mud  was  dashed 
up  as  a  shell  plowed  the  field.  A  clod  of  earth  caught 
my  friend  in  the  small  of  his  back,  bringing  him  to 
his  knees. 

As  he  regained  his  feet  he  quietly  readjusted  his 
monocle  and,  shaking  the  muddy  soil  from  his 
clothes,  he  alternately  rubbed  the  place  where  he 
had  been  hit  and  angrily  shook  his  fist  toward  the 
Turkish  guns.  When  his  ire  allowed  him  to  express 
his  disgust  by  word  of  mouth,  he  cried:  " Mon  cher 
Villiers,  these  Turkish  canaille  are  zo  barbarious; 
they  have  not  ze  sympathy.  Such  is  war — so 
vulgare!" 

100 


/ 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

The  general  was  near  us,  scanning  the  field 
through  his  glass,  and  a  smile  of  satisfaction  was 
spreading  over  his  face,  for  a  battery  of  our  guns 
had  followed  the  infantry  into  the  redoubt  and  was 
now  playing  havoc  with  the  Turks,  who  were  re- 
tiring toward  the  town. 

The  storm  swept  on  for  a  moment,  the  thunder 
of  the  guns  became  a  distant  rumble,  and  a  strange, 
weird  silence  lingered  for  a  space  over  the  field  of 
battle.  The  Russian  stretcher  bearers  had  brought 
ofF  the  field  all  the  maimed  who  were  living.  The 
thousands  of  little  black-and-white  dots  studding  the 
furrows  and  ruts  of  the  heavy  soil,  who  but  a  few 
moments  ago  were  so  busy  in  their  life  and  vigor, 
were  now  mere  clods,  waiting  to  be  returned  to 
Mother  Earth. 

A  suddening  slackening  of  the  flight  in  Krudener's 
direction  made  me  wonder  if  we  should  really  dine 
in  Plevna  that  night.  His  guns  slowly  boomed  in 
a  half-hearted  way  and  the  rattle  of  his  infantry 
was  like  the  pulse  of  a  dying  man,  fitful  and  weak. 
But  still  Schakofsky  seemed  sanguine  and  many 
thought  that  the  square  meal  in  Plevna  that  night 
was  assured.  For  the  first  time  in  the  day  Forbes 
and  I  broke  our  fast  and  lit  our  pipes. 

Presently,  from  out  the  captured  redoubt  an 
orderly  rode  in  hot  haste  in  our  direction  and  hur- 
ried up  to  the  general.  Schakofsky  appeared  much 
disturbed  at  the  news  he  brought,  for  he  frowned 
and  spoke  rapidly  to  the  members  of  the  staff.    The 

101 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

orderly  remounted  and  returned,  but  had  hardly 
gained  the  newly  taken  trenches  when  another  horse- 
man appeared,  galloping  madly  toward  us. 

The  face  of  this  man  was  pale;  his  forehead, 
scarred  by  a  passing  bullet,  was  covered  with  bloody 
beads  of  perspiration  which  trickled  down  his  cheek. 
As  he  dismounted,  a  more  ominous-looking  messen- 
ger could  not  be  imagined.  He  was  almost  breathless, 
and  quivering  with  excitment. 

The  general  impatiently  listened  to  his  story. 
Then  stamping  his  foot  and  clenching  his  hands  in 
a  delirium  of  passion,  Schakofsky  addressed  hir 
officers. 

I  touched  my  friend  Forbes,  who  was  still  at  work 
on  his  dispatches,  and  said:  "Look  at  the  general. 
Surely  there's  something  up — some  serious  news." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  he  replied.    "It's  all  right." 

I  still  persisted.  "What  does  this  mean?"  I  cried. 
From  the  lately  captured  redoubt  the  Russian  bat- 
teries were  returning  on  the  gallop.  The  horses, 
clearing  the  curtains  of  the  earthworks  at  a  bound, 
dashed  down  into  the  trenches,  then  struggled  up 
again,  but  still  with  the  guns  intact,  while  the  drivers 
lashed  furiously  at  their  steaming  flanks  as  they 
careered  madly  across  the  valley.  "Hang  it,  Forbes! 
Look  at  that!" 

My  comrade  sprang  to  his  feet,  and,  seizing  me  by 
the  arm,  he  said:  "By  Jove!  Villiers,  you're  right! 
There  is  something  up!    The  whole  game  's  up!" 

For  a  time  the  capture  of  Plevna  had  seemed  an 

102 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

accomplished  fact,  but  such  is  the  fortune  of  war 
that  within  a  few  minutes  the  tide  had  turned  and 
the  coveted  goal  was  snatched  from  our  grasp.  The 
town  which,  peeping  above  the  Turkish  trenches, 
mocked  us  with  its  mosque  and  minarets,  was  not 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  Russians  before  one 
hundred  and  forty  days  had  been  spent  in  terrible 
fighting,  and  not  until  its  fair  fields  had  been 
drenched  with  the  lifeblood  of  the  flower  of  the 
Russian  army,  some  seventy  thousand  men.  The 
present  Russian  success  had  depended  entirely  upon 
holding  that  captured  redoubt.  Its  loss  was  the  last 
throw  of  the  dice. 

"Krudener's  held  in  check,"  said  Forbes,  "and 
our  reserves  are  used  up.  They  have  all  gone  for- 
ward." Even  as  he  was  speaking  the  Russian  in- 
fantry came  clambering  over  the  works  in  the  wake 
of  the  guns  and  raced  across  the  battle  ground. 
It  seemed  but  a  moment  later  that  the  Turkish 
shells  shrieked  through  the  air  and  burst  among  the 
retreating  masses.  Up  and  over  the  ridge  of  Rade- 
shova  came  the  Russian  infantry  in  panic-stricken 
flight — a  mere  rabble,  all  making  for  the  road  along 
which  we  had  advanced  but  a  few  hours  previously 
in  such  good  spirits  and  so  confident  of  success. 
Even  now  the  Turks,  strongly  reinforced,  were  oc- 
cupying all  their  old  positions,  and  blazing  away 
at  us  with  renewed  vigor. 

Krudener,  on  our  right,  had  been  unable  to  make 

any  headway  at  all,  finding  the  Turks  in  the  Gravitza 

103 


VILHERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

position  too  strong  for  him,  and  now  the  disaster 
befalling  his  left  wing  made  his  defeat  complete, 
and  this  in  turn  imperilled  the  entire  Russian  posi- 
tion and  made  a  general  retreat  imperative  to  avoid 
capture  or  annihilation. 

The  wounded  had  been  collecting  all  day  long 
in  the  little  village  we  had  passed  through  in  the 
early  morning.  I  therefore  said  to  Forbes,  "I  will 
go  and  see  what  I  can  do  for  the  wounded,  as  I  am  of 
no  use  here." 

Leaving  my  comrade  with  the  general  and  his 
staff,  I  started  on  my  errand.  As  I  rode  down  to 
Radeshova  several  hundred  panic-stricken  soldiers 
came  tearing  over  the  ridge  like  a  tidal  wave,  carry- 
ing everything  before  them.  Many,  to  impede  their 
movements  the  less,  had  rid  themselves  of  their  over- 
coats and  accouterments.  Some  had  thrown  away 
their  rifles,  and  not  a  few  stripped  themselves  to 
their  shirts. 

A  number  of  bandsmen  were  among  this  crowd, 
and  several  had  cast  aside  their  more  cumbersome 
instruments.  A  kettledrum  was  sticking  in  fehe  mud. 
The  brass  rim  lying  uppermost  reflected  the  flare 
of  a  bursting  shell.  The  lurid  flash,  catching  my 
horse's  eye,  caused  the  brute  to  begin  prancing  about, 
evidently  more  scared  at  this  to  him  singular  object 
than  the  hurry-scurry  and  din  of  battle  around  him. 

This  incident  was  fatal  to  my  plans  of  succoring 
the  Radeshova  wounded,  for  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  my  pony  was  nearly  swept  off  his  feet  and  he 

104 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

and  I  were  caught  in  the  current  of  the  retreat  before 
we  had  gained  the  outskirts  of  the  village  and  tossed 
about  as  in  a  stormy  sea.  With  the  greatest  difficulty 
I  strove  to  keep  the  little  beast  under  me  from  being 
impaled  on  the  bayonets  of  the  reckless  soldiery  as 
they  stumbled  over  the  deeply  rutted  fields  in  the 
gloom  of  the  coming  night. 

In  spite  of  the  darkness  rapidly  closing  in  upon 
us,  the  flicker  of  Turkish  fire  did  not  diminish,  but 
came  nearer  and  nearer  as  the  hordes  of  Moslem 
irregulars  hurried  on  the  heels  of  the  retreat,  slaying 
all  the  weak  or  wounded  that  came  within  their 
clutches.  As  they  carried  on  their  ghastly  work, 
their  exultant  yells  and  the  heartrending  shrieks  of 
their  tortured  victims  came  up  from  the  valley. 

At  last  I  was  swept  with  the  torrent  of  helpless 
fugitives  toward  a  thicket  flanking  the  road  to 
Karagac-Burgaski.  Hurrying  through  the  wood  was 
an  officer;  following  him  were  about  forty  men,  all 
bloody  and  ragged.  They  were  still  under  discipline 
and  moving  in  fairly  good  order.  The  officer,  on 
sighting  me,  ordered  his  men  to  halt,  and  out  of  sheer 
weariness  the  majority  threw  themselves  on  the 
ground.  He  then  asked  me  the  direction  of  the 
Burgaski  road,  and  in  an  agitated  voice,  broken  with 
pity  and  anger,  said:  "Look,  monsieur,  look!  Here 
are  all  the  men  that  remain  out  of  one  of  the  Tsar's 
finest  regiments,  and  I  am  their  only  officer." 

I  pointed  to  the  blazing  of  bursting  shrapnel  a 
few  hundred  yards  on  our  left  flank*     "The  Turks 

105 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

are  showing  us  the  road.  There  it  lies,  evidently," 
said  I. 

Our  line  of  retreat  was  for  many  miles  plowed  by 
the  enemy's  shells.  I  eventually  came  upon  the  main 
road  and  found  it  crowded  with  panic-stricken  sol- 
diers. An  ambulance  wagon  and  five  country  carts 
were  slowly  lumbering  along,  brimming  over  with 
wounded,  and  on  either  side  of  the  wagons  were 
crowds  of  maimed  men  who  had  hopelessly  struggled 
to  get  places  within  and  were  now  clinging  to  the 
wheels  and  tailboards  of  the  heavily  laden  vehicles. 
Many  were  struck  down  by  their  more  fortunate 
companions  within  the  carts  when  too  great  a  num- 
ber clung  to  the  wheels  and  impeded  their  progress. 

I  found  only  fourteen  able-bodied  men  with  this 
contingent,  and  they  were  trying  to  save  the  groaning 
and  whimpering  occupants  of  the  wagons  by  skir- 
mishing within  a  decent  radius  to  scare  off  the  over- 
bold Bashi-Bazouks  who  were  following  us,  slaying 
all  the  wounded  that  came  in  their  way.  Toward 
midnight  the  Turkish  fire  ceased,  and  these  jackels 
of  the  Turkish  army,  glutted  with  the  blood  of  their 
helpless  victims,  at  last  slunk  back  to  their  lines, 
and  we  moved  along  in  peace  till  early  dawn,  when 
we  discovered  between  us  and  the  village  of  Bul- 
garini  what  appeared  to  be  a  party  of  Circassians. 

We  sent  out  a  few  of  our  party  to  reconnoiter  and 

prepared  to  die  protecting  our  charge,  when  to  our 

joy  the  scouts  came  galloping  back,  bringing  in  one 

of  the  party,  who  turned  out  to  be  of  our  own  cavalry. 

1 06 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

Their  uniforms  were  exactly  like  Turkish  Circassians', 
but  for  a  white  cross  worn  on  their  astrakhan  shakos, 
which  in  the  mist  of  the  early  morning  we  had  been 
unable  to  distinguish.  On  arriving  at  the  village 
we  requisitioned  all  the  straw  from  the  barns  and 
thatch  of  the  houses,  and  placed  our  wounded  on 
the  litter,  standing  guard  round  them  till  the  sun 
was  up,  when  we  found  the  safety  of  our  position 
for  a  time  assured.  I  had  foraged  around  for  food 
and  was  able  to  procure  a  large  cake  of  maize  bread, 
some  of  which  I  ate  and  the  remainder  I  stuck  on 
the  pommel  of  my  saddle. 

Seeing  Schakofsky  and  a  few  of  his  staff  riding 
toward  the  village,  I  rode  up  to  my  friend  of  the 
previous  morning,  who  had  remarked  so  flippantly 
that  "ze  ball  was  about  to  open."  As  I  neared  the 
party  they  all  seemed  terribly  dejected,  and  I 
thought  how  much  the  group  resembled  Meissonier's 
picture  of  Napoleon's  retreat  from  Moscow.  I 
offered  my  friend  with  the  eyeglass  (which,  by  the 
bye,  was  still  fixed  in  its  accustomed  place)  the  cake 
of  maize.  He  sadly  shook  his  head  and  said,  "I  have 
no  appetite."  I  then  proffered  it  to  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  staff.  They  all  answered,  "We  cannot 
eat. 

I  inquired  if  they  had  seen  Forbes. 

"Not  since  the  previous  night,"  they  replied. 

I  became  terribly  anxious  about  him,  for  to  all 
my  inquiries  the  same  ominous  answer  came,  "Not 
since  last  night."    With  a  heavy  heart  I  turned  my 

107 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

little  horse's  head  toward  the  Danube,  for  I  must 
now  hurry  off  my  budget  of  war  sketches. 

Toward  midday  I  came  up  with  the  head  of  the 
retreating  army.  Crashing  and  jamming  over  the 
little  bridge  spanning  the  river  Osma,  crowding  the 
valley  beyond,  and  further  filtering  through  the 
passes  cutting  the  belt  of  hills  running  parallel  to 
the  Danube,  was  the  remnant  of  that  force  of  thirty 
thousand  men  that  but  a  brief  four-and-twenty  hours 
previously  had  advanced  with  such  high  hope  and 
had  fought  so  heroically  for  their  country's  honor. 
My  heart  went  out  to  them  in  sympathy  for  their 
misfortune,  for  Russian  soldiers  are  stolid,  brave 
fellows,  and  I  had  witnessed  their  heroism,  their 
endurance,  and  their  humiliation. 

In  a  state  of  utter  confusion  were  ambulances, 
baggage  wagons,  artillery,  and  men  of  all  arms.  A 
surgeon  who  knew  me  struggled  out  of  the  crush 
and,  riding  up  to  me,  said:  "Did  you  ever  see  any- 
thing like  this?  Osman  Pasha  is  one  big  fool.  Why 
does  he  not  come  on?  He  would  cut  us  up  in 
one  hour." 

The  famous  though  rather  indolent  pasha  was 
sitting,  no  doubt,  smoking  his  pipe,  satisfied  with 
his  victory,  and  he  did  not  come  down  upon  us, 
to  the  astonishment  of  many  besides  my  surgeon 
friend,  for  indeed  Osman  had  a  splendid  opportunity 
at  this  moment  to  drive  us  all  into  the  Danube. 

The  Russian  forces  eventually  rallied  and  in- 
trenched themsleves.    I  kept  on  to  Sistova,  arriving 

108 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

there  late  at  night.  I  gave  my  poor,  fagged-out 
horse  three  rations  of  grain  and  soon  fell  asleep  on 
the  flags  of  the  courtyard  of  the  inn — for  I  could 
get  no  shelter — to  the  sound  of  my  horse  crunching 
his  corn,  as  he  stood  near  me  with  his  bridle  rein 
secured  to  my  wrist.  Once  or  twice  I  was  awakened 
by  a  gentle  tug  at  my  arm,  and  the  sound  of  the  corn- 
munching  still  went  on.  Poor  brute!  He  would  not 
risk  lying  down,  for  he  seemed  to  know  there  was 
further  hard  work  for  him  in  the  morning.  At  dawn 
I  gave  him  a  drink  of  water  down  by  the  river  and 
we  crossed  the  bridge  to  Simnitza,  thence  on  to 
Giurgevo,  to  catch  the  evening  train  for  Bucharest. 

There  was  nothing  to  disturb  our  equanimity  on 
the  way  till  we  came  within  a  mile  of  Giurgevo, 
where  the  road  skirts  the  bank  of  the  river.  On  my 
left,  inland,  was  a  wide  and  deep  ditch,  one  side  of 
the  trench  being  in  the  deep  shadow  cast  by  the 
setting  sun.  The  dark  gap  appeared  weird  and  un- 
canny to  my  horse  and  the  animal  became  excessively 
restive,  snorting  and  shying  at  the  faint  shadows. 

Now  it  was  the  custom  of  the  Turks  in  Rustchuk, 
on  the  opposite  shore,  about  this  time  in  the  after- 
noon, to  open  fire  on  the  Bucharest  train  being  made 
up  in  the  Giurgevo  station.  Out  of  pure  deviltry 
the  Moslems  brought  one  of  their  guns  to  bear  on 
the  solitary  rider  struggling  with  his  horse  along  the 
riverside,  apparently  trying  to  catch  the  train — my 
polite  Turkish  friends  evidently  not  recognizing  at 
that  moment  and  at  that  distance  the  distinguished 

109 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  AD  FEN TU RE 

visitor  they  had  treated  with  so  much  courtesy  a 
few  months  back,  when  my  Levantine  dragoman 
took  me  up  to  see  their  fort.  However,  their  shots 
were  badly  aimed;  though  they  burst  on  the  road 
and  in  the  ditch,  they  only  cured  my  horse  of  shying. 
Seeing  at  once  the  old  accustomed  situation,  the 
animal  bolted  the  rest  of  the  way,  bringing  me  on 
time  to  the  station,  where  I  left  the  poor  brute  in 
comparative  comfort  in  the  charge  of  a  Cossack. 

At  about  nine  o'clock  I  arrived  in  Bucharest,  the 
"little  Paris  of  the  East."  Unwashed  for  three  days, 
plastered  with  incrusted  dust,  the  uppers  of  my 
boots  almost  worn  through  my  riding  breeches,  stiff 
in  every  bone  from  exposure  and  continued  riding 
in  the  same  saddle,  I  staggered  out  of  my  caleche 
into  the  pretty  little  garden  of  Brofft's  hotel. 

As  I  dragged  myself  wearily  over  the  gravel,  to 
my  delight  and  great  surprise  I  discovered  my  lost 
friend  Forbes;  by  his  side  were  W.  Beatty  Kingston 
of  the  Daily  Telegraph,  and  the  English  consul, 
sitting,  dining  at  a  table  under  the  trees.  As  I 
approached  the  little  party,  Forbes  turned  round  and 
uttered  a  short  exclamation  of  surprise,  and  then, 
with  the  others,  stared  at  me  with  a  peculiar  look  I 
shall  never  forget.  I  was  suddenly  arrested  by  this 
curious  expression  on  their  faces,  and  stood  transfixed. 

Forbes,  still  with  his  eyes  dilated  and  fixed  upon 
me,  rose  from  the  table  and  walked  slowly  toward 
me.  When  he  came  within  a  yard  he  suddenly  gave 
a    shout    of   satisfaction    and    grasped    me    by   the 

no 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

shoulder,  shaking  me  all  the  while.  Then  the  other 
men  came  forward  and  clutched  me.  Not  quite 
understanding  this  novel  proceeding,  I  quietly  said, 
"For  goodness'  sake,  give  me  something  to  eat  and 
drink;  I  am  starving." 

Forbes  shook  me  all  the  more  at  this  remark, 
saying,  "That's  Villiers  for  certain,  and  alive,  too! 
You  ungrateful  youngster!  Here  have  we  been 
mourning  you  as  killed  at  Plevna,  and  now  to  our 
joy  at  finding  that  you  are  not  an  apparition  the 
only  return  you  make  is  immediately  to  question 
our  hospitality  by  asking  for  something  to  eat  and 
drink.    Pass  the  wine.    By  Jove!  he  does  look  faint!" 

I  certainly  felt  in  that  condition.  I  was  so  dead- 
beat  that  when  I  got  to  my  room  that  night  I  fell 
on  the  bed  without  undressing.  Toward  noon  next 
day  I  found  myself  awake,  between  the  sheets. 
How  I  was  undressed  and  tucked  up  on  that  occasion 
remains  a  mystery  to  me.  I  was  totally  oblivious 
to  any  kind  offices  till  the  waiter  came  in  with  my 
coffee. 

Forbes,  I  found,  had  on  that  unfortunate  night 
at  Plevna  given  me  up  for  lost,  as  all  the  wounded 
in  Radeshova  had  been  massacred  by  Bashi-Bazouks 
a  short  time  after  I  had  left  him  for  the  purpose  of 
looking  after  the  ambulance.  I  always  ascribe  my 
safety  on  that  occasion  to  the  regimental  drum  stick- 
ing in  the  mud. 

There  were  also  several  officers  in  the  Russian 
army  who  could  sketch  and  paint  well,  especially 

vm„  r. — 8  III 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

one  excellent  artist  with  the  advance  cavalry,  Gen- 
eral Arnoldi.  As  soon  as  his  scouts  and  dragoons 
had  cleared  a  section  of  the  country  of  the  enemy, 
he  would  send  for  me  and  we  would  take  our  camp 
stools  and  water  colors  and  settle  down  before  some 
picturesque  cottage,  surrounded  by  its  scared  in- 
habitants, and  add  color  to  the  pages  of  our  sketch 
books.  Sometimes  we  would  be  far  in  advance  of 
the  main  body  and  the  commissariat.  I  remember 
one  morning  we  were  fearfully  hungry,  with  the  pos- 
sibility of  waiting  for  many  hours  till  the  ration 
wagons  came  up.  The  general  ordered  one  of  his 
troopers  to  empty  his  pockets.  In  one  of  them  was 
a  handful  of  odd  pieces  of  black  bread. 

"Ah!"  said  the  general,  "these  are  what  I  want." 
and  he  grabbed  the  evil-looking  pieces.  "You  may 
go  now,"  and  the  soldier  trotted  off  evidently  much 
elated  with  the  honor  the  general  had  paid  him. 

"Take  a  share,"  said  the  soldier-artist  as  he  handed 
the  lot  to  me. 

"Thanks,"  said  I;  "but  won't  that  poor  devil  go 
wanting?" 

"Why,"  replied  Arnoldi,  "this  is  a  red-letter  day 
for  him.  He  will  tell  his  comrades  with  great  glee 
that  the  general  eats  of  the  same  fare  as  themselves." 

I  tried  to  bear  in  mind  the  old  adage  of  not  looking 
"a  gift  horse  in  the  mouth"  by  averting  my  gaze 
from  the  unpalatable-looking  rations,  and  then  with- 
out further  delay  swallowed  them. 

Another  clever  artist  with  whom  I  became  friendly 
112 


THE  BATTLE  OF  PLEVNA 

during  that  campaign  was  Prince  Alexis  Dolgorouki. 
I  came  across  him  in  a  rather  odd  way.  Forbes  and 
I  were  in  search  of  the  army  that  was  to  be  first  to 
cross  the  Danube,  and  we  were  on  the  lookout  for 
General  DragamirofF  who  was  in  command.  By 
night-time  we  found  that  we  were  with  the  division 
belonging  to  Prince  Mirski,  who  befriended  us  and 
told  us  that  he  would  let  us  know  when  the  passage 
of  the  historic  river  would  take  place.  I  take  my 
friend  Forbes's  account  of  what  followed: 

"Presently  Prince  Mirski  sent  a  servant  across 
to  our  garden  to  say  that  his  little  personal  train 
was  ready,  and  we  fell  in  behind  the  wagon  which 
contained  the  camp  kit  of  His  Highness.  A  soldier 
rode  up  to  our  carriage  and  told  us,  in  excellent 
English,  that  he  was  commanded  by  the  general 
to  serve  as  our  escort.  Russian  private  soldiers  are 
not  commonly  conversant  with  English;  yet  this 
man,  judging  by  his  uniform,  seemed  nothing  more 
than  a  simple  soldier,  an  infantryman  of  the  foot 
regiment  of  the  9th  Division,  mounted  on  a  little 
white  horse.  He  wore  the  white  blouse  of  the  private 
soldier  with  the  shoulder  straps  of  the  regiment;  a 
bayonet  hung  from  his  waist  belt.  His  loose  trousers 
were  tucked  into  his  long  boots. 

"Oh  yes,  he  had  been  in  England  several  times — 
merely  pleasure  visits.  He  knew  a  number  of  people 
there,  but  was  not  good  at  remembering  names. 
Lord  Carrington  he  had  met  several  times.  Here 
was   a   puzzling   private   soldier,   truly!     I   left  the 

"3 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

carnage,  mounted  my  horse,  and  joined  him.  We 
talked  all  the  way  to  Piatra,  and  the  more  we  talked 
the  more  I  wondered  to  find,  in  a  private  soldier, 
a  man  who  knew  most  of  the  capitals  of  Europe; 
who  had  seen,  in  Berlin,  Count  SeckendorfF's  water 
colors;  who  knew  the  details  of  the  stampede  of 
the  troop  horses  of  our  household  cavalry  from  their 
picket  pegs  among  the  sand  of  Cove  Common; 
who  criticized  the  cookery  of  the  Cafe  Anglais;  and 
whose  brother  was  aide-de-camp  of  the  Emperor 
and  the  governor  of  a  province. 

"I  am  not  good  at  asking  people  for  their  names, 
but  as  we  rode  down  the  hill  into  Piatra  he  casually 
mentioned  that  his  name  was  Dolgorouki.  I  have 
had  strange  experiences  in  my  time,  but  never  before 
has  it  fallen  to  my  lot  to  have  a  prince  acting  as  the 
escort  of  my  baggage  wagon." 


Chapter  VI 

THE    BLACK   DEATH 


Ten  battles  in  two  years  and  as  many  skirmishes — A  record  for  a  young 
man — Black  Death  stalks  the  Rumanian  Plains — The  Red  Cross 
nurse  and  her  wretched  patients — A  princely  Samaritan — /  stay  with 
Skobeleff — What  nations  fight  for — /  ride  his  white  charger  and  dye 
it  magenta — MacGhan  succumbs — /  introduce  two  great  opponents 
to  each  other. 


TN  a  short  two  years  I  had  already  been  an  eye- 
*■  witness,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  to  ten  big 
battles  and  as  many  skirmishes,  but  this  second 
battle  of  Plevna,  which  I  have  just  described,  was 
the  biggest  up  to  date,  and  stirred  the  world  more 
than  any  of  the  other  encounters.  The  most  dra- 
matic incident  of  that  campaign  to  my  mind,  how- 
ever, was  the  march  of  the  Turkish  defenders  of  the 
Plevna  position  after  their  surrender,  which  came 
as  the  result  of  the  siege  of  that  city  by  the  rein- 
forced Russian  army.  I  have  never  seen  a  sight  quite 
so  sad  in  all  my  nomad  life  as  the  tramp  of  those 
wretched  prisoners  through  Rumania  into  captivity 
in  Russia  during  this  cruel  winter  of  1877-8. 

The  Danube  that  year,  before  freezing,  was  full  of 
floating  ice,  and  the  rapid  current  of  the  river  pre- 

"5 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

vented  the  passage  of  boats  with  food  supplies,  and 
all  pontoons  had  been  broken  up  by  the  floes.  The 
Russian  armies  were  practically  starving.  Then 
came  the  fall  of  the  fortress  and  thousands  of  prison- 
ers— extra  mouths  to  feed —  added  to  the  difficulties 
of  the  Russian  commissariat.  The  only  thing  for 
the  Muscovites  to  do  was  to  get  the  captured  Turks 
as  quickly  as  possible  toward  their  food  bases. 
Therefore,  these  men,  half-starved  on  meager  ra- 
tions during  the  long  siege,  were  pushed  forward  to- 
ward their  goal,  with  hardly  a  scrap  of  food  in  their 
bodies  for  days  on  end.  Not  one  third  of  these 
poor  creatures  who  for  so  many  months  had  held  the 
huge  masses  of  Russian  soldiers  at  bay  ever  returned 
to  their  native  land. 

My  companion,  a  doctor,  and  I  were  stowed  away 
one  morning  with  our  furs  in  our  sleigh — a  sort  of 
hencoop  minus  the  top  bars — with  our  baggage  in 
the  straw  to  serve  as  a  seat.  The  mercury  had  fallen 
to  some  fifteen  degrees  below  zero  the  night  before, 
and  our  road,  therefore,  was  too  slippery  to  be  the 
most  desirable  surface  for  sleighing.  The  result  was 
that  our  conveyance  would  occasionally,  to  our  con- 
sternation, run  away  with  the  horses  when  we  came 
to  a  slant  to  left  or  right  of  the  road,  causing  us  to 
be  always  on  the  lookout  for  a  collision  with  one  of 
the  many  unsavory  heaps  of  carrion  by  the  roadside, 
on  which  hungry  dogs  were  feeding.  Dead  horses 
and  dying  oxen  now  strewed  our  route,  signs  that 
we  must  be  in  the  wake  of  some  munition  train. 

116 


THE  BLACK  DEATH 

Presently  we  came  up  with  a  long  line  of  wagons  and 
sleighs  loaded  with  shot  and  shell. 

The  morning  was  bitterly  cold.  Before  us  lay  a 
vast  plain  of  snow,  broken  only  by  the  bare  telegraph 
poles,  which  for  miles  traced  our  road  through  many 
a  drift.  The  dead  stillness  of  the  plain  under  its 
white  mantle  was  occasionally  disturbed  by  the  dull 
beating  of  the  wings  of  carrion  crows  as  the  foul 
birds  hovered  over  their  prey.  Soon  they  increased 
in  number,  making  the  leaden  sky  almost  black. 
Then,  afar  off,  breaking  the  horizon,  a  long  dark 
line  came  slowly  moving  in  caterpillar  fashion  over 
the  snow  toward  us.  It  was  a  column  of  men 
marching.  No  Russian  or  Rumanian  troops  con- 
stituted it,  or  ere  this  we  should  have  heard  some 
cheerful  song  borne  across  the  plain.  I  aroused  my 
friend  who  had  settled  down  in  his  furs  and  had 
fallen  fast  asleep. 

"Look,  what  do  you  make  of  those  fellows,"  said 
I.  "Surely  they  must  be  Turkish  prisoners.  See 
the  plumes  of  their  Dorobantz  guard  waving  as 
they  advance." 

"Yes,"  cried  Sandwith,  now  thoroughly  aroused 
and  peering  through  his  binocular.  "I  can  see  along 
with  the  escort  Turkish  officers,  some  on  ponies, 
others  on  foot." 

Behind  tramped  the  men  who  had  so  long  kept  the 
Muscovites  at  bay  around  Plevna.  How  spiritless 
and  broken  they  now  looked  as  they  trudged  wearily 
along   the    road    to   their   captivity!      Half-starved, 

117 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

almost  dead  with  fatigue  and  the  cruel  cold,  many 
with  fever  burning  in  their  eyes,  mere  stalking  bones 
and  foul  rags,  came  the  brave  troops  who  had  made 
the  fame  of  Osman  Pasha.  My  companion,  with  the 
keen  scent  of  the  medical  practitioner,  sniffed  the 
taint  of  smallpox  and  typhus  lingering  about  them 
in  the  frosty  air. 

"For  our  lives,  Villiers,  we  must  get  to  windward 
of  these  poor  fellows!"  And  we  drove  our  sleigh 
to  the  left  flank  of  the  approaching  column. 

Many  of  these  wretched  creatures  were  even  now 
falling  out  of  the  ranks  and  lying  down  to  die. 
One  had  just  thrown  himself  in  the  snow  by  the 
roadside— he  could  go  no  farther.  A  comrade,  loath 
to  leave  him,  followed  and  tried  to  persuade  him  to 
struggle  once  more  to  join  the  line.  There  was  no 
answer;  he  had  swooned  or  was  dead.  The  ghastly 
line  of  living  phantoms  was  trudging  wearily  for- 
ward. A  soldier  of  the  rear  guard  now  came  up. 
With  the  butt  end  of  his  musket  he  roughly  pushed 
the  living  man  back  into  the  ranks;  then  with  a  brutal 
kick  turned  the  head  of  the  fallen  Turk  over  in  the 
snow.  A  wild,  fixed  stare  met  his  gaze.  The  Turk 
was  dead.  The  soldier  shouldered  his  rifle  and  re- 
joined the  guard. 

Thousands  and  thousands  of  birds  of  prey  whirled 
around,  settling  in  front  or  in  rear  of  this  sad  pro- 
cession, like  sharks  round  a  doomed  ship.  A  few 
yards  farther  on,  lying  half  covered  with  snow,  was 
the  nude  body  of  a  dead  Turk  who  had  been  stripped 

118 


THE  BLACK  DEATH 

by  his  companions  for  the  sake  of  the  little  warmth 
of  the  fetid  rags  he  had  worn  on  his  gaunt  limbs. 
A  carrion  crow  had  just  settled  on  his  clenched  hand, 
and  the  dogs  were  hurrying  up  to  their  loathsome 
repast. 

Another  man  lay  with  upturned  face  staring  on  the 
heavens  through  the  slowly  falling  snow.  He  was 
not  quite  dead,  although  the  flakes  lodged  on  his  fixed 
eyeballs.  Dogs  and  swine  from  the  village  near  by 
were  quarreling  for  their  share  of  the  ghastly  feast. 

In  this  village,  called  Putineiu,  we  found  a  large 
wooden  lazaret  built  by  the  Russians.  A  consid- 
erable number  of  the  Red  Cross  attendants  lived  in 
the  houses  of  the  village.  In  one  large  building  which 
had  once  been  a  schoolhouse  resided  a  Russian  noble- 
man who  was  the  chief  of  the  ambulance.  Hearing 
of  our  arrival,  he  kindly  invited  us  to  stay  a  day  or 
two.  We  gladly  accepted  the  prince's  hospitality, 
for  we  knew  there  was  scant  comfort  at  Turnu- 
Magurelle,  the  little  Danube  town  for  which  we 
were  making.  The  ice  was  still  on  the  move  on  the 
river  and  no  communication  with  the  opposite  shore 
of  the  Danube  could  be  made  till  the  floes  had 
packed.  Here,  while  we  waited,  there  was  certainly 
comfort,  if  not  luxury. 

We  slept  in  one  common  room,  in  which  a  German 
stove  burned  night  and  day,  and  we  fed  on  biscuit 
and  canned  goods,  generally  with  Russian  tea  for 
a  beverage.  There  was  plenty  of  tobacco  in  the  shape 
of  cigarettes,  probably  the  finest  the  world  could 

119 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

produce.  Princely  hospitality  must  crop  up  some- 
where, even  in  humble  quarters,  and  it  came  out 
strong  in  those  cigarettes. 

Our  Russian  host  would  say,  as  he  whiffed  at  his 
gold  and  amber  mouthpiece:  "Pah!  One  cannot 
eat  sucking  pig  and  caviare  when  these  poor  devils 
are  starving,"  alluding  to  the  Turkish  prisoners 
arriving  daily,  "but  you  can  smoke  and  not  be 
ashamed,  and  this  tobacco  is  priceless." 

A  curious  character  was  our  host — good-hearted, 
sympathetic,  and  full  of  sincere  commiseration  for 
the  terrible  suffering  around.  He  would  come  in 
after  his  morning  duties  in  billeting  the  prisoners 
and  shout  for  Carlos  to  come  and  fumigate  him. 
He  would  strip  by  the  stove,  and  while  his  servant 
sprayed  him  with  Violette  de  Parme  he  would  sponge 
his  beard  in  a  kerosene  tin  which  served  as  a  basin, 
and  comb  his  hair  before  a  jeweled  mirror  which 
came  from  his  gold-and-turquoise  dressing  case — a 
glittering  souvenir  of  the  favor  of  his  august  soverign, 
the  Tsar.  This  he  never  traveled  without,  and  it 
was  a  token  of  the  luxurious  side  of  his  character 
which,  he  would  always  tell  you,  he  strove  hard  to 
hide  from  the  misery  around  him.  Nevertheless, 
he  was  seen  to  be  everywhere  administering  to  the 
wants  of  the  starving,  frost-bitten  sufferers,  in  his 
rich  sables  and  carrying  a  gold-mounted  stick. 

The  prisoners  were  passing  through  Putineiu  in 
thousands  daily,  and  during  the  night  were  billeted 
on  the  inhabitants — who  were  almost  as  poverty- 

120 


THE  BLACK  DEATH 

stricken  as  their  guests — choking  up  their  little 
hovels  and  breeding  vermin  and  pestilence  wherever 
they  went.  Mothers  must  protect  their  young  ones 
from  contagion,  so  when  night  set  in  those  Turks  too 
weak  to  resist  were  thrown  out  into  the  cold,  which 
meant  certain  death,  for  the  thermometer  registered 
far  below  zero.  The  result  was  that  the  little  dead- 
house  opposite  our  lodgment  was  always  well  ten- 
anted the  following  morning  with  stark  and  frozen 
Turks. 

The  doctor  and  I  visited  this  charnel  house.  In 
one  of  the  rooms  we  found  a  few  poor  creatures  who 
had  sought  shelter  from  the  bitterness  of  the  night. 
They  had  cleared  a  space  in  the  center  of  the  room 
by  piling  the  dead  around,  and  had  gathered  scraps 
of  rags  from  the  bodies  and  some  straw  for  a  fire  and 
were  seated  shoulder  to  shoulder  around  this  fetid 
fuel,  trying  to  ignite  it  with  flint  and  steel.  At  last 
it  smoked  and  smoldered. 

One  wretched  Turk  whom  we  had  reckoned  as 
dead  crawled  toward  the  weird  group  and,  feebly 
struggling  for  a  place  near  the  burning  rags,  was 
thrown  back  by  his  luckier  comrades  on  to  the  pile 
of  dead.  We  remonstrated  against  this  rough  treat- 
ment, but  his  companions  in  misery  sullenly  replied: 
"Why  should  we  waste  warmth  on  him?  He  will 
be  dead  in  a  few  minutes." 

My  companion,  who  spoke  Turkish  fluently,  in- 
sisted on  the  poor  fellow  being  allowed  to  huddle 

in  with  the  rest  round  the  cheerless  fire.    The  Turk 

121 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

we  had  befriended  could  not  speak  his  thanks  for 
the  palsy  which  had  just  seized  him.  Big  tears 
stood  in  his  eyes  and  rolled  down  his  frost-bitten 
cheeks  as  he  crawled  up  to  the  doctor  and  out  of 
gratitude  kissed  his  boots. 

Many  of  these  shuddering  wrecks  of  humanity 
had  not  eaten  for  days,  save  of  the  carrion  by  the 
roadside.  We  were  lingering,  loath  to  go,  but  knowing 
not  what  to  do  to  alleviate  their  misery.  We  had 
money,  gold  in  plenty;  but  of  what  use  was  gold 
when  there  was  nothing  to  buy?  A  gleam  of  sun- 
shine sometimes  pierced  the  ghastly  gloom  of  the 
place  when  the  little  Russian  Red  Cross  sister  pre- 
sented herself,  smiling,  at  the  door,  in  white  cap  and 
black  waterproof  apron,  with  a  flaming  red  cross 
on  her  breast.  I  had  met  her  before  and  had  many 
arguments  with  her.  She  hated  the  horrible,  blood- 
thirsty Turks — and  for  that  matter  the  English, 
too,  for  their  sympathy  with  those  barbarians,  as 
she  was  pleased  to  call  them — yet  she  tolerated  me 
and  we  were  the  best  of  friends. 

"Here  you  are  again,"  she  said.  "Still  interested 
in  these  miserable  creatures.  Ugh!  I  loathe  them!" 
But  at  the  same  time  she  swiftly  passed  round  the 
group  huddled  by  the  fire,  and  in  another  moment 
the  majority  were  smoking  cigarettes,  and  some  were 
trying  to  kiss  her  feet  in  the  fervor  of  their  happiness. 

I  have  seen  that  little  lady,  though  always  railing 
at  the  horrible  Turk,  go  into  the  most  foul  fever 
dens  to  administer  comfort  to  the  miserable  prison- 

122 


THE  BLACK  DEATH 

ers.  She  was  the  life  and  soul  of  the  lazaret  at 
Putineiu,  and  many  a  Turk,  with  his  eyes  glazing 
in  death,  would  turn  to  her  sweet  face  and  try  to 
utter  a  blessing  on  her  for  her  devotion  to  the  sick 
and  dying. 

Every  morning  the  pure  white  snow  in  and  around 
the  village  was  blotted  with  the  stark  corpses  of 
prisoners  who  had  dropped  by  the  way.  Then  the 
local  arabas  went  round  and  the  dead  were  collected, 
thrown  in,  pell-mell,  till  the  carts  seemed  crowded 
with  bones  and  rags.  The  stiffened  limbs,  catching 
between  the  spokes  of  the  wheels,  snapped  and 
creaked  in  concert  with  the  crazy  vehicle  as  the 
bodies  were  carried  to  the  empty  granaries  near  by, 
which  were  used  as  burial  pits. 

The  last  day  I  spent  in  Puteneiu  was  probably  the 
coldest  of  that  exceptionally  cold  winter.  The 
telegraph  wires  running  along  the  roadside  were 
encased  in  more  than  an  inch  of  ice.  The  hospital 
glittered  a  ruby  tint  with  frosted  ice  and  now  in 
the  last  rays  of  the  blood-red  sun  sinking  below  the 
horizon.  At  this  moment  I  called  at  the  hut  of  my 
friend  the  Red  Cross  sister  to  say  good-by.  She 
had  just  returned  from  some  act  of  mercy  at  the 
lazaret.  As  we  stood  on  the  threshold  I  drew  her 
attention  to  the  lovely  evening.  A  star  and  crescent 
moon  were  now  the  only  signs  in  the  clear  sky.  My 
companion  turned,  touched  my  arm,  and  pointed 
over  the  plain.  Ah!  There  was  the  long,  black  line 
winding  over  the  snow.     More  Turkish  prisoners! 

123 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

When  was  all  this  misery  to  end?  On  they  tramped, 
footsore  and  weary,  with  their  cadaverous  faces  and 
ice-laden  beards.  Some  trudged  along  on  their  heels, 
their  toes  having  sloughed  away  in  the  biting  frost; 
many  were  half  naked,  the  rotted  rags  having  dropped 
from  their  limbs  so  as  to  show  great  pale  patches  of 
frost-bitten  flesh. 

The  sister  and  I  walked  together  toward  the 
wooden  bridge  spanning  the  narrow  ice-bound  river. 
Here  the  long,  black  line  came  to  a  halt,  and  a  ration 
of  bread  was  served  out  to  each  prisoner  of  war. 
Some  dropped  it,  their  hands  too  stiffened  with  frost 
to  hold  on,  and  then  there  was  a  free  fight  among 
their  more  ravenous  and  stronger  brethren  for  the 
discarded  morsel,  till  the  guard  with  the  butt-ends  of 
their  rifles  restored  order.  Some  strove  to  moisten 
their  hard  rations  in  the  puddles  thawed  by  the 
warmth  of  their  bodies,  while  others  knelt  in  the 
snow,  turning  their  weary  heads  toward  the  East 
and  fervently  praying  after  their  own  fashion.  How 
the  heavens  that  night  with  the  emblems  of  their 
faith  glittering  on  the  snow  and  on  their  misery 
seemed  to  mock  those  poor  men! 

I  looked  at  the  sister;  she  was  trembling  with 
emotion.    Tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  as  she  wished  me  good-by.  "I 
begin  to  love  these  wretched  Turks.  This  misery 
atones  for  their  many  sins.  God  help  them,  for  how 
little  we  can  do!" 

I  walked  away  and  lit  one  of  the  prince's  cigarettes. 
124 


THE  BLACK  DEATH 

As  the  fragrant  smoke  curled  into  the  frosty  air  I 
could  not  refrain  from  thinking  that  the  little  lady 
with  the  black  apron  and  flaming  red  cross  on  her 
breast  was  one  of  God's  helping  hands,  and  a  very 
sweet  one,  too. 

I  was  very  glad  when  the  moving  ice  began  to 
settle  on  the  Danube  and  made  it  possible  for  me 
to  cross  the  river  and  join  Skobeleff's  army  marching 
to  Constantinople.  As  we  slowly  advanced  toward 
the  Moslem  city  the  climate  became  warmer.  To- 
ward Christmas  the  Russian  army  had  moved  up 
on  the  ridge  of  Tchekmedjie  and  was  looking  down 
on  the  old  Moslem  city,  just  snatched  from  its  grasp 
by  the  British  squadron  which  had  passed  through 
the  Dardanelles  into  the  Sea  of  Marmora  and  was 
ready  at  a  moment's  notice  to  open  fire  on  the  Rus- 
sians if  they  moved  another  yard  toward  Con- 
stantinople. It  was  a  curious  sensation  for  me — 
the  sight  of  the  warships  flying  the  ensign  of  Old 
England.  Indeed,  I  hardly  knew  whether  there  was 
still  within  me  the  patriotic  feeling  that  ought  to 
arise  at  the  sight  of  the  flag  "that  braved  a  thousand 
years  the  battle  and  the  breeze."  For  I  had  shared 
the  vicissitudes  of  the  Russian  army  during  many 
a  fight  and  a  trying  march  across  the  Balkan  Penin- 
sula and  I  had  found  the  Muscovites,  whom  the 
majority  of  us  Englishmen  regard  as  veritable 
Russian  bears,  to  be  good-natured,  jolly,  kind 
fellows. 

During  that   long  halt  of  the   Russians  outside 

125 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

Constantinople  I  took  up  my  quarters  in  the  English 
club  in  the  Grand  rue  de  Pera.  Here  that  famous 
war  correspondent,  the  veritable  emancipator  of 
Bulgaria,  Januarius  Aloysius  MacGahan,  whom  I 
had  previously  met  up  country,  used  to  join  me  at 
dinner.  He  was  nursing  the  United  States  military 
attache,  Lieut.  F.  V.  Green,  who  was  suffering  from 
typhoid  fever.  MacGahan  used  to  turn  up  rather 
late  for  dinner  after  his  assiduous  attention  to  his 
ailing  countryman,  and  I  noticed  that  his  appetite 
was  gradually  becoming  poorer  and  poorer,  till  at 
last  he  would  eat  nothing  but  a  few  strawberries, 
which  he  amused  himself  by  requisitioning  from  my 
plate  when  the  dessert  came  on.  We  had  both  been 
looking  forward  to  meeting  the  great  Russian  gen- 
eral, Skobeleff,  who  had  invited  us  to  stay  with 
him  at  his  camp  at  Tchekmedjie. 

On  the  morning  we  were  to  start,  MacGahan  sent 
me  the  message  that  he  was  not  well  enough  to  go 
with  me  then,  but  would  I  go  and  inform  SkobelefF 
that  he  would  be  at  his  headquarters  the  following 
day. 

Riding  out  from  Constantinople,  I  found  the  Rus- 
sian commander  in  his  tent,  which  was  pitched  on 
a  little  hillock  in  the  center  of  his  army  of  thirty 
thousand  warriors,  "the  survival  of  the  fittest"  of 
that  famous  Russian  legion  which  had  forced  the 
passage  of  the  Danube  in  the  previous  June. 

The  smart  and  acute  SkobelefF  had  picked  up  a 
few  ideas  from  the  "unspeakable  Turk."     I  found 

126 


THE  BLACK  DEATH 

that  the  majority  of  his  men  had  discarded  the 
Krenke  and  Berdan  rifles  for  a  lighter  and  surer 
weapon,  the  Martini-Peabody  of  the  Turkish  Redfis. 

SkobelefF  met  me  in  his  temporary  dining  room,  an 
arbor  of  greenery  a  few  paces  in  front  of  his  little 
tent.  A  curious  figure  the  general  looked  as  the 
leaves  fluttered  about  his  clean-shaven  head,  for 
he  had  copied  the  Mussulman  in  this  respect  also, 
and  his  cranium  was  as  smooth  as  a  billiard  ball. 
His  big  yellow  beard  seemed  to  cover  the  upper  part 
of  his  tightly  buttoned  gray  overcoat.  His  high 
Russian  boots  were  splashed  with  mud,  for  he  had 
just  ridden  up  from  San  Stefano,  the  seaside  quarters 
of  the  Grand  Duke  Nicholas,  the  Russian  Com- 
mander-in-Chief. 

After  a  hearty  welcome  he  inquired,  "Where  is 
MacGahan?" 

I  gave  him  his  message,  and  added  that  my  com- 
rade was  rather  unwell.  A  shadow  passed  over 
SkobelefFs  face  as  he  received  this  information,  and 
he  said,  with  great  concern:  "My  dear  Villiers, 
I  know  MacGahan  thoroughly,  and  I  fear  that  he 
must  be  seriously  ill  not  to  keep  an  appointment 
with  me.  Ah!  what  a  fine  fellow  our  American 
friend  is.  By  Jove!  don't  I  remember  what  a  sen- 
sation he  caused  when  he  arrived  in  Khiva  from  that 
long,  lonely  ride  across  the  Turkoman  desert!  I 
took  to  his  genial,  brave  face  at  once,  and  we  have 
been  the  best  of  friends  ever  since.  Well,  our  party 
will  indeed  be  a  small  one.     There  are  only  myself 

VOL.  i.— 9  I27 


VILLI ERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

and  a  Frenchman,  but  we  will,  nevertheless,  do  our 
best  to  entertain  you." 

The  general  himself  was  good  enough  for  me,  for 
I  was  full  of  that  hero  worship  which  is  one  of  the 
grandest  sensations  of  youth.  And  SkobelefF,  next 
to  Clive,  was  my  paragon  in  the  way  of  war  and 
adventure. 

His  tent  was  furnished  with  the  utmost  plainness. 
A  truckle  bed,  a  table,  and  a  chair  made  up  the  com- 
plement of  his  household  effects.  Three  books — 
those  he  most  prized — were  on  a  little  table,  a  small 
piece  of  candle  stuck  in  a  tin  candle-holder  beside 
them.  I  looked  with  interest  at  the  contents  of  his 
scanty  library.  It  consisted  of  The  American  War, 
by  Badeau;  Schuyler's  Campaigning  on  the  Oxus; 
and  the  Life  and  Adventures  of  Napoleon. 

The  evening  train  did  not  bring  MacGahan,  and 
so  it  was  rather  a  sad  party  at  dinner  in  the  little 
green  arbor  that  night. 

Just  as  the  meal  was  announced,  SkobelefF  said 
to  me,  "Here's  a  little  function  you  might  find 
interesting."  And  so,  taking  me  with  him,  he  reviewed 
a  body  of  some  twenty  company  cooks,  who  were 
drawn  up  in  line  a  few  paces  outside  his  tent.  Each 
man  held  in  front  of  him  a  pannikin  of  ragout. 
Said  SkobelefF,  "Do  as  I  do,  Villiers." 

We  walked  down  the  line,  each  holding  a  spoon, 
tasting  the  contents  of  the  soup  kettles  and  pro- 
nouncing them  good.  The  cooks  then  made  a  left 
turn  and  filed  ofF  toward  the  camp. 

128 


THE  BLACK  DEATH 

Skobeleff  was  very  fond  of  doing  these  little  things. 
He  used  to  say  that  "the  rations  of  the  men  should 
be  good  enough  for  the  general." 

At  the  roll  call,  after  a  fight,  the  general  would 
step  up  to  certain  units  and  compliment  them  on 
their  personal  bravery,  having,  he  would  say,  "had 
his  eye  upon  them"  during  the  action.  His  soldiers 
all  loved  him  for  these  little  touches  of  frank  com- 
radeship and  they  would  have  marched  to  the  very 
jaws  of  hell  if  Skobeleff"  led  them. 

During  dinner  we  were  talking  about  the  Turks, 
for  whom  the  general  had  a  great  admiration,  as 
he  loved  a  brave  enemy. 

"I  wonder,"  said  he,  as  we  sat  at  table,  "why 
those  men  fight  like  fiends?" 

"It's  probably  their  religion,"  I  replied.  "And, 
after  all,  it's  some  inducement  to  a  poor  devil  who 
is  half-starved  and  has  very  little  of  the  pleasures 
of  this  life  to  know  if  he  dies  killing  a  Christian  he 
passes  into  a  world  where  his  stomach's  always  full 
and  his  harem  contains  the  most  lovely  houris  im- 
aginable." 

"Ah!"  said  Skobeleff".  "There's  something  in 
that." 

"Then,"  I  pointed  out,  "your  men  are  just  as 
fanatical.  They  fight  for  their  particular  God,  the 
Great  White  Tsar  and  Holy  Russia." 

"Yes,  that's  so,  too,"  laughed  Skobeleff";  then, 
turning  to  his  French  guest,  "And  you,  monsieur; 
what  do  you  fight  for?" 

129 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

Gesticulating,  as  some  Frenchmen  will,  he  sprang 
up,  posed  herocially,  and  said,  "Ah,  pour  la  gloire!" 

"Bravo!    And  now  you  English?" 

"Well!     Probably  the  greatest  aspiration  of  all." 

"Vat's  dat?"  smiled  the  Frenchman. 

"Why,  British  interests,  of  course,"  said  I. 

Both  he  and  Skobeleff  laughed  heartily  at  this. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Skobeleff,  "I  love  you 
English.  I  have  never  visited  your  country,  but  I 
consider  you  a  wonderful  people.  I  admire  you  so 
much  I  should  like  to  fight  you.  I  want  to  see  the 
red-coat  and  come  in  touch  with  the  'thin  red  line.' 
And,"  he  continued,  "we  are  very  likely  to  be  soon 
at  close  quarters  with  it.  Now  look  here,  Villiers, 
if  there  is  war  between  England  and  Russia,  you  come 
with  us." 

"This  is  awfully  good  of  you,  general;  but  you 
must  know  that  the  'thin  red  line'  you  lately  alluded 
to  has  never  been  beaten.  What  if  you  should  get 
a  reverse?" 

"Have  no  fear;  you  will  be  safe  with  me.  Just 
think  it  over — how  novel  it  would  be;  how  interna- 
tional your  profession  would  become.  Think  it 
over,"  laughed  SkobelefF.    "Good  night." 

Next  morning  there  was  no  news  of  MacGahan, 
so  Skobeleff  wired  to  Constantinople  for  information 
regarding  him.  The  reply  was,  "Seriously  ill. 
Unconscious." 

The  general  was  excessively  concerned  by  this 
somber  intelligence.    "Villiers,"  he  said,  "you  must 

130 


THE  BLACK  DEATH 

return  at  once.  I  am  afraid  the  poor  fellow  is  in  a 
very  bad  way.  This  looks  like  black  typhus" — a 
plague  that  was  raging  at  that  time  in  Con- 
stantinople." 

"General,  there's  no  train  until  this  evening." 

"That  makes  no  difference,"  said  Skobeleff.  "Take 
my  white  charger.  He  is  fleet,  and  if  you  manage 
him  well  you  will  be  in  Constantinople  in  less  than 
three  hours." 

I  was  almost  staggered  with  the  responsibility  of 
riding  the  general's  charger,  the  famous  horse  which 
had  carried  him  through  so  many  fights.  What  if 
anything  should  happen  to  the  animal?  It  was 
therefore  with  a  feeling  of  pride  and  at  the  same  time 
of  fear  that  I  mounted.  The  morning  was  dull  and 
lowering.  The  road,  soddened  with  nearly  a  week 
of  incessant  rain,  was  one  long  slough  of  mud.  But 
Skobeleff's  charger  was  good  enough  for  any  road, 
however  heavy,  and  away  we  galloped.  The  early 
morning  drizzle  turned  into  a  downpour  of  pitiless 
rain  that  simply  soaked  my  ulster  through  and 
through.  This  garment  was  made  of  homespun, 
with  a  dash  of  the  martial  aspect  thrown  into  it 
by  a  red  woolen  lining. 

When  at  last  I  had  crossed  the  dreary,  tree- 
less, undulating,  sterile  country  between  the  Rus- 
sian camp  and  Constantinople  and  arrived  in  the 
Moslem  city,  I  took  off  the  bedraggled  ulster 
and  placed  it  across  the  pommel  of  my  saddle. 
Winding  through   a  labyrinth   of  narrow  streets   I 

131 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

found  myself  an  object  of  interest  alike  with  Mussul- 
man and  Christian  wayfarers.  Intent  on  my  all- 
important  errand,  I  paid  no  attention  to  these  curi- 
ous glances;  but  when  I  arrived  at  the  door  of  my 
club,  to  my  horror  and  mortification,  on  looking  at 
the  steaming  charger  I  found  that  from  his  withers 
to  his  flanks  he  was  stained  with  the  dye  of  the 
magenta  lining  of  my  ulster.  For  hours  I  scrubbed 
at  that  horse  without  avail,  and  when  SkobelefF 
turned  up  by  the  evening  train  I  had  to  apologize 
for  the  still  ruddy  hue  of  his  famous  charger. 

I  found  that  MacGahan  was  dead.  No  one  was 
allowed  to  see  his  body  for  fear  of  spreading  the 
disease.  However,  when  SkobelefF  arrived  by  the 
afternoon  train  he  pushed  aside  the  guard  at  the 
door  of  the  death  chamber  and  knelt  beside  the 
corpse  and  burst  into  tears.  He  was  so  overcome 
and  his  face  swollen  with  crying  that  I  had  to  take 
him  to  my  room,  where  he  remained  till  the  signs  of 
his  grief  had  passed  away. 

After  MacGahan's  funeral,  knowing  that  SkobelefF 
always  wished  to  meet  his  great  adversary,  Baker 
Pasha,  I  thought  I  could  arrange  a  meeting. 

SkobelefF  used  to  say  to  me  whenever  he  had  a 
severe  setback  in  his  advance  to  Constantinople  that 
one  of  my  countrymen  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
business.  The  Turks  could  never  rally  like  this 
unless  they  had  a  great  leader.  One  morning  he 
told  me  he  knew  the  man  and  his  name  was  Baker, 
for  it  was  on  the  lips  of  every  prisoner.    Remember- 

132 


THE  BLACK  DEATH 

ing  this  conversation,  I  decided  to  bring  them  to- 
gether during  this  armistice  period  by  asking  them 
to  dine  at  the  Club  Commercial  at  Maritime  in  the 
Grand  rue  de  Pera,  the  very  club  where  I  had  met 
this  same  Valentine  Baker  hardly  two  years  before, 
a  very  despondent  man,  practically  exiled  from  his 
country.  When  we  entered  the  lounging  room  of 
the  club  he  stood  toasting  his  back  before  a  roaring 
fire,  waiting  for  his  great  adversary.  As  I  walked 
toward  him,  escorting  SkobelefF,  he  stepped  forward 
with  outstretched  hands  which  my  general  seized. 
They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  then  Sko- 
belefF greeted  Baker  in  Russian  fashion  by  kissing 
him  on  both  cheeks  and  he  reciprocated  in  like 
manner.  Then  they  commenced  chatting  and  took 
their  seats  at  the  table.  It  was  a  delightful  meeting 
which  I  shall  never  forget.  I  remember  that  Sko- 
belefF was  so  overcome  by  the  hospitality  of  the 
occasion  that  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  I 
had  to  see  him  to  bed. 

Alas!  SkobelefF  and  Baker  have  both  joined  the 
heroic  dead.  But  these  two  men  thrilled  the  whole 
civilized  world  with  their  wonderful  exploits  just 
over  forty  years  ago. 


Chapter  VII 

EASTERTIDE    IN    PALESTINE 

My  pilgrimage — /  am  shot  at  by  the  way — The  rock  of  Andromeda — 
Richard  Cceur  de  Lion — As  in  the  days  of  the  Apostles — The  sepulcher 
— Maundy  Thursday — Holy  fire — The  Wall  of  Wailing,  and  many 
other  things — My  first  love — /  follow  her  to  Jericho — And  lose  her  in 
Constantinople. 

SO  long  as  the  armistice  between  Turkey  and 
Russia  remained  in  force  there  was  little  for 
me  to  do.  Therefore  I  decided  to  have  a  change  of 
air,  as  typhus  was  still  rampant;  so  I  cabled  to  my 
paper  that  I  was  leaving  for  Syria  to  sketch  the 
ceremonies  during  Easter  week  in  Jerusalem,  and 
that  I  would  be  within  touch  if  hostilities  broke  out 
between  England  and  Russia.  I  went  to  say  good-by 
to  SkobelefF  and  told  him  that  I  was  going  for  a 
holiday  to  Palestine.  "Who  knows,"  said  he,  "if 
when  you  return  you  will  find  England  embroiled 
and  we  shall  be  fighting  her.  Remember  my  in- 
vitation when  we  last  met." 

I  never  saw  him  again.  His  yellow  beard,  tanned 
face,  and  gray  eyes  glowed  in  the  light  of  the  de- 
clining sun;  the  background  was  the  thin  smoke  of 
the  camp   fires  through  which   the   moon  was   be- 

134 


EASTERTIDE  IN  PALESTINE 

ginning   to   glimmer.     This   last    picture   of  him   I 
shall  never  forget. 

I  was  keen  to  see  the  Holy  City  as  a  pilgrim  sees 
it,  and  therefore  I  simply  took  a  haversack  with 
me  containing  a  change  of  linen,  toilet  requisites, 
a  mosquito  curtain,  stout  boots,  and  three  important 
books — Baedeker  s  Guide,  Renan's  Christ,  and  Mark 
Twain's  Innocents  Abroad.  With  this  modest  outfit 
I  found  myself  one  morning  steaming  through  the 
Dardanelles,  en   route  for  Judea. 

The  Austrian  Lloyd  steamers  were  excellent  in 
those  days  and  I  found  I  had  a  cabin  all  to  myself; 
this  was  a  great  comfort,  for  generally  at  the  pil- 
grimage season  there  is  hardly  deck  room,  for  Easter 
in  Jerusalem  is  the  most  stirring  time  of  the  year. 
Pilgrims  from  all  parts  of  the  globe  arrive  in  large 
numbers  to  worship  at  the  shrines  of  the  Holy 
Sepulcher.  Not  only  Christians  assemble  in  the 
Holy  City,  but  Moslems  from  all  parts  of  Turkey 
and  the  East  come  to  glorify  their  Prophet  at  the 
great  Mosque  of  Omar. 

It  was  lucky  that  very  few  pilgrims  from  Russia 
were  able  that  year  to  attend  Greek  Easter,  for  it 
no  doubt  saved  the  Holy  City  the  trying  ordeal  of 
witnessing  many  serious  struggles  which  the  meeting 
of  Muscovite  and  Moslem  fanatics  would  have  oc- 
casioned. The  disturbances  between  the  Greek  and 
Latin  Churches,  which  very  often  led  to  a  bloody 
issue,  were  scandalous  enough,  for  they  were  even 
carried  within  the  precincts  of  the  Holy  Church, 

*3$ 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

The  journey  was  one  of  great  interest;  we  touched 
at  all  the  principal  ports  along  the  coast  and  at  many 
of  the  islands  in  the  iEgean  Sea,  allowing  the  pil- 
grim sufficient  time  to  look  about  him.  It  was  a 
gloomy  morning  and  threatened  rain  when  we  made 
our  first  stop  at  Smyrna,  and  I  was  apparently  the 
only  pilgrim  who  was  interested  in  the  ruins  of  the 
castle  fortress  looming  above  the  old  city.  I  saun- 
tered up  the  hill  and  examined  the  remarkable 
stratum  of  oyster  shells  that  crop  out  on  the  left 
of  the  highway  at  the  turn  leading  to  the  Castle, 
which  Mark  Twain  so  humorously  tries  to  account 
for  in  his  Pilgrimage. 

On  rounding  the  corner  I  slowly  wended  my  way 

to  the  ruins.     As  I  approached,  I  saw  the  figure  of 

a    Zebeck — picturesque   Asia    Minor    Bashi-Bazouk 

with   a  wondrous  tall  turban  on   his   head    and    a 

huge  yataghan  and  two  silver-mounted  pistols  stuck 

in  his  broad,  red  leather  belt.     I  came  to  a  halt,  and 

mused  as  to  whether  I  should  commence  making  a 

sketch  of  this  splendid   fellow,  for  he  stood  in  his 

magnificent  costume   as  if  he  were  posing,  having 

guessed  my  intention.     Then,  to  my  astonishment, 

he   quietly   drew   one   of  those   shimmering   pistols 

from  his  belt,  leveled  it  at  me  and  fired.     I  saw  the 

flash  of  the  flint  and  steel  and  of  the  powder  in  its 

pan.     For  a  moment  I  seemed  paralyzed,  but  the 

whistle  of  the  ball  sounding  close  to  my  head  served 

to  waken   me  to  the   seriousness  of  the   situation. 

He  was   drawing   the   second    pistol   from   his   belt 

136 


EASTERTIDE  IN  PALESTINE 

when  I  clapped  my  hand  on  my  hip  pocket  and 
rushed  at  him.  To  my  horror  my  revolver  was  not 
there.  Anyway,  I  quickly  made  up  my  mind  to 
butt  him  in  the  stomach  before  he  could  aim.  But 
the  fellow  had  seen  my  pocket  action,  and  thinking 
that  I  had  a  six-shooter,  turned  and  fled. 

I  saw  that  he  was  well  on  his  way  and  then  I 
turned  and  sprinted  in  the  opposite  direction,  vowing 
that  I  should  never  again  be  found  wandering  far 
afield  without  my  gun. 

I  had  time  to  rush  off"  to  Ephesus  and  spend  two 
hours  among  the  ruins,  and  looked  upon  the  tomb 
of  the  Evangelist  Luke,  stood  where  Paul  preached, 
conjured  up  from  the  murky  pool  of  water  the  glori- 
ous temple  of  the  Great  Diana  of  the  Ephesians, 
where  now  among  its  squalid  ruins  only  the  frogs 
lift  up  their  voices  to  the  great  goddess.  For  a 
few  hours  I  wandered  on  the  Isle  of  Rhodes  through 
its  scanty  plains,  saw  the  famous  rue  Chevalier  of 
St.  John,  its  fine  old  hospices  and  the  spot  where 
once  stood  the  Colossus. 

But  all  of  these  places  of  interest  seemed  to  be 
as  nothing  to  my  anticipation  of  the  wonders  of  the 
Holy  Land.  Even  the  cup  of  Cyprian  wine  at 
Cyprus  merely  caused  a  conjecture  as  to  whether  the 
ancient  imbibers  of  that  liquor  suffered  from  in- 
digestion, or  whether  from  its  extreme  acidity  it 
might  really  have  been  the  wine  that  dissolved  the 
pearls  of  Cleopatra. 

There  was  the  usual  swell  along  the  coast  of  Pal- 

137 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

estine  which  caused  our  ship  to  roll  uneasily  even 
when  anchored  off  its  shores,  and  tended  to  choke 
all  emotion  that  I  might  have  had  in  my  bosom  at 
the  first  sight  of  the  hills  of  Judea. 

As  we  steamed  along  the  morning  sun  gently 
raised  the  veil  of  mist  from  the  mountains  and  dis- 
covered to  the  pilgrim  early  on  deck  the  long-looked 
for  Holy  Land.  But  the  incessant  see-saw  motion 
of  our  steamer  occupied  the  attention  of  most  of 
the  voyagers  at  that  auspicious  moment.  And  it 
was  with  a  matter  of  indifference  to  them  that 
Jaffa  gradually  rose  with  its  steep  rock  out  of  the 
gray  shore  and  caught  the  first  rosy  tints  on  its 
housetops  as  day  broke  across  the  water. 

In  a  few  moments  several  boats  pushed  off  and 
were  pulled  rapidly  toward  our  ship  by  stalwart 
Assyrians.  As  they  arrived  alongside  there  was  a 
general  rush  of  pilgrims — Moslems,  Christians,  and 
Jews.  During  the  noise,  struggle,  and  general  con- 
fusion we  were  hustled  down  the  side  of  the  vessel 
by  our  dragoman  into  a  large  four-oared  boat  and 
we  pushed  off  for  the  shore.  When  we  were  still 
some  little  distance  from  the  beach,  dark-looking 
rocks,  like  mighty  fangs,  rose  out  of  the  surf,  which 
raced  and  boiled  round  them  with  fury.  With  much 
trepidation  we  steered  for  a  passage  between  two 
of  these  dangerous  natural  breakwaters.  With  a 
supreme  effort,  our  men  tugging  hard  at  the  oars, 
we  ran  past  the  jagged  black  teeth  into  calm  water 

and  made  for  the  beach. 

138 


EASTERTIDE  IN  PALESTINE 

One  must  pity  poor  Andromeda,  for  she  must 
indeed  have  had  a  hard  time  of  it  on  rough  days, 
what  with  the  surf  and  the  sea  monster.  For  it 
is  to  one  of  these  Jaffa  rocks  that  tradition  chains 
the  undulating  figure  of  the  fair  daughter  of  Cepheus 
and  Cassiopeia,  whose  agonies  so  often  appear  on 
the  walls  of  the  picture  academies  of  the  world. 
Here,  too,  Jonah,  as  my  American  friend  observed, 
"took  a  state  cabin  in  the  eternal  economy  of  the 
whale." 

On  landing  we  made  straightway  for  Hardegg's 
nice  little  hotel  and  took  breakfast  of  eggs  that  were 
certainly  not  overboiled,  for  here  I  was  initiated  into 
the  mystery  of  the  American  way  of  eating  soft 
eggs,  broken  into  a  glass  and  stirred  up  with  salt  and 
butter. 

Threading  our  way  at  walking  pace  through 
strings  of  camels,  with  beggars  and  lepers  crying 
for  baksheesh,  we  arrived  outside  the  town,  when 
we  began  to  trot  toward  the  hills  of  Judea,  passing 
through  groves  of  oranges  and  hedges  of  prickly 
pear  which  made  the  air  fragrant  as  a  gentle  breeze 
from  the  sea  wafted  the  scent  along  the  dusty  road 
and  sweetened  the  atmosphere  for  miles. 

Our  dragoman  continually  pulled  up  the  wagon 
and,  standing  up,  would  majestically  point  out  the 
places  hallowed  by  the  traditions  of  the  country, 
as  we  passed  by.  So  many  were  the  places  of  in- 
terest, and  so  few  the  ones  to  which  I  could  attach 
credit,  that  not  many  were  retained  in  my  memory. 

139 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

I  passed  Ramleh  and  Bet  Nula,  where  Richard  Coeur 
de  Lion  pitched  his  tents  after  the  first  day's  march 
to  Jerusalem — which,  by  the  bye,  was  a  good  day's 
march  indeed.  It  is  a  curious  coincidence  that  in 
my  little  country  home  at  Bedhampton,  near  Lang- 
stone  Harbour  in  Hampshire,  one  of  the  fields  near 
my  cottage  was  the  camping  ground  of  Richard  and 
his  Crusaders  before  he  set  sail  on  his  great  venture. 
We  saw  the  valley  in  which  David  killed  Goliath, 
and  on  the  left,  Mizpah  and  the  birthplace  of  John 
the  Baptist. 

Reaching  a  rugged  part  of  the  road,  for  an  hour  or 
more  we  struggled  over  rocky  ground  on  foot,  and 
then  a  short  jaunt  in  my  wagon  brought  me  in  view 
of  the  Holy  City.  Just  as  the  last  rays  of  the  sun 
were  dying  out  of  the  heavens — lighting  up  in 
russet  golden  glamour  its  old  walls,  domes,  and 
minarets — we  entered  the  Jaffa  Gate.  However 
much  my  guide  had  shaken  my  belief  in  many  holy 
places  along  the  route,  as  I  passed  by  the  crumbling 
walls  of  this  weird  and  wonderful  city  I  almost 
shivered  with  a  thrill  of  awe;  for  at  this  time — 
probably  this  very  day  just  eighteen  hundred  and 
twenty-five  years  ago — Jesus  of  Nazareth  suffered 
martyrdom  for  the  world  within  sight  of  those  very 
ramparts. 

At  six  the  next  morning  the  sound  of  the  clanging 
of  bells  awakened  me  to  go  to  the  great  Latin  Mass, 
for  it  was  their  Easter  Sunday,  and  the  Greek  Palm 
Sunday.     I  made  my  way  to  the  top  of  the  Holy 

140 


EASTERTIDE  IN  PALESTINE 

Sepulcher  and  entered  a  door  just  below  the  dome, 
finding  myself  in  a  little  gallery  whence  I  could  look 
over  the  chapel  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher  and  upon  the 
scene  below.  The  tomb  in  which  the  body  of  the 
Meek  and  Lowly  was  supposed  to  be  laid  was  gaudy 
with  pictures,  artificial  flowers,  silver  and  gold  lamps, 
gilt  candlelabra  and  burning  tapers.  Surging  round 
its  walls  was  a  noisy  crowd  as  motley  in  garb  as 
figures  in  the  scene  of  a  pantomine — Copts,  Abys- 
sinians,  Assyrians,  Greeks,  Latins,  and  Moslem 
guards.  It  is  necessary  that  a  strong  Turkish  guard 
be  placed  in  the  building  to  keep  the  members  of 
the  various  Christian  churches  from  quarreling  with 
each  other,  instead  of  worshiping  at  the  sepulcher. 

Presently  a  jingle  of  bells,  beating  of  gongs,  and 
the  strains  of  an  organ  ascended  along  with  the 
fatty  smoke  of  a  thousand  tapers  from  the  jostling 
crowd  below;  then  from  the  Latin  chapel  a  proces- 
sion of  bishops  and  priests  in  gorgeous  array,  with 
banners  of  cloth  of  gold,  slowly  wended  their  way 
through  the  crowd,  chanting  and  praying  amid  a 
steam  of  incense.  Before  they  were  quite  finished, 
the  Greeks,  Armenians,  and  Copts  began  to  hold 
their  respective  services  and  tried  to  drown  the 
voices  of  their  rivals,  as  they  went  through  their 
devotions. 

During  the  following  week  the  Greeks  had  the 
church  to  themselves.  On  Thursday  the  Patriarch 
and  twelve  bishops  enacted  Christ  and  His  Apostles, 
the  Washing   of  the    Feet,  the   Last    Supper,  and 

141 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

the  Agony  in  the  Garden.  A  platform  was  erected 
in  the  courtyard  of  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepul- 
cher,  decorated  with  relics  and  emblems  of  the 
Church.  A  huge  branch  from  the  olive  tree  in  the 
Garden  of  Gethsemane,  under  which  Christ  prayed, 
was  used  in  the  ceremony,  and  after  the  service  was 
over  the  crowd  scrambled  for  its  sprays. 

It  was  the  Easter  only  of  the  year  before  that  I 
was  in  London  and  present  at  a  time-honored  custom 
of  giving  presents  to  the  poor  on  Maundy  Thursday, 
the  day  before  Good  Friday — a  modification  of  this 
very  ceremony  I  now  witnessed  in  Jerusalem. 

The  early  kings  and  queens  of  England  used  to 
kiss  and  wash  the  feet  of  a  number  of  paupers  and 
beggars  on  that  day,  in  imitation  of  Christ  and  His 
Apostles.  But  this  ceremony  has  now  dwindled 
simply  to  giving  largess,  and  since  the  reign  of 
James  II  royalties  have  not  figured  in  the  matter 
at  all.  On  that  occasion,  which  I  sketched,  the 
Lord  High  Almoner  gave  doles  to  fifty-eight  men  and 
women,  the  number  of  each  sex  corresponding  to 
the  age  of  Queen  Victoria,  in  the  Chapel  Royal  of 
the  old  palace  of  Whitehall.  A  detachment  of  the 
picturesque  Yeomen  of  the  Guard,  or  "Beefeaters" 
as  they  are  facetiously  called,  was  present,  one  of 
whom  bore  upon  his  head  a  huge  golden  salver  of 
the  time  of  William  and  Mary,  which  contained  the 
royal  alms.  Then  a  service  was  held  and  between 
the  chants  and  hymns  the  gifts  were  distributed, 
each  pauper  receiving  two  pound  ten  in  gold  coins 

142 


EASTERTIDE  IN  PALESTINE 

and  fifty-eight  new  penny  pieces,  together  with  a 
number  of  articles  of  clothing. 

However,  the  most  amazing  event  of  all  the  won- 
derful week  in  Jerusalem  was  the  function  of  the 
Holy  Fire.  The  Church  of  the  Sepulcher  was  left 
open  all  night  Friday  and  hundreds  of  zealots  camped 
upon  the  flagstones.  Early  the  next  morning  the  place 
began  to  be  packed  with  pilgrims  who  became  more 
and  more  frantic  every  moment.  They  shouted  and 
yelled  and  clapped  their  hands,  and  to  amuse  them- 
selves more  fully  a  few  would  chase  each  other  over 
the  heads  of  the  densely  packed  crowd,  wrestling 
and  struggling  back  into  the  mass  as  they  were 
tripped  up  by  their  irate  brethren  underneath  them. 
The  Moslem  guard,  though  in  much  stronger  force 
than  usual,  seemed  to  have  little  control  and,  in 
order  to  keep  the  peace,  had  to  use  the  butt-ends  of 
their  muskets.  Water  was  served  round  to  quench 
the  parched  mouths  of  the  worshipers,  and  often 
there  was  a  bloody  melee  to  get  a  drop  of  the  precious 
liquid. 

After  a  procession  of  bishops  and  priests  had 
passed  three  times  round  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd, 
the  Patriarch  entered  the  Sepulcher.  Now  the 
noise  and  hubbub  became  more  deafening.  A  priest 
standing  before  the  two  oval  windows  in  the 
side  of  the  tomb  thrust  his  hand  in  one  of  them. 
Then  the  pandemonium  reigned  supreme.  The 
masses  hustled  and  squeezed  in  their  endeavor  to 
press  toward  the  window,  shouting  and  yelling  till 

VOL.  I.— 10  143 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

they  grew  hoarse  with  their  exertions,  making  the 
place  more  like  an  inferno  than  a  Church  of  Christ. 

In  a  twinkling  the  whole  building,  which  until 
now  had  been  in  semidarkness,  became  brilliant  with 
light  as  the  church  candles  were  lit  by  the  priest 
who  rushed  along  passing  his  flaring  brand  to  others 
standing  ready  by  the  candelabras.  Then  the  Holy 
Fire  flamed  out  of  the  windows  and  torches  were 
thrust  into  it  by  the  mob.  One  of  the  first  caught 
and  the  delighted  bearer  with  a  yell  of  triumph 
managed  to  struggle  up  with  it  onto  the  heads  of 
his  packed  brethren  and  skim  over  them  toward  the 
door. 

He  was  within  a  yard  of  his  goal  when  he  was 
tripped  up  and  fell  sprawling,  and  his  flare  died  out 
and  was  wrenched  from  his  grasp.  The  disaster  was 
too  much;  thinking  he  was  doomed  to  misery  for 
life,  he  began  to  rave,  and  was  thrown  out  of  the 
church  by  the  Moslem  guard,  a  gibbering  lunatic. 
The  crowd  below  was  now  a  mass  of  moving  flame, 
for  all  had  their  torches  afire.  The  fumes  of  the 
melting  tallow  as  it  hissed  and  guttered,  filling  the 
church  with  unctuous  black  smoke,  nauseated  and 
choked  me.  I  hurried  away,  glad  to  get  into  the 
open  once  more. 

All  through  this  eventful  Easter  week  Jerusalem, 
generally  so  silent  in  the  sleepy  shadow  of  her  narrow 
streets,  had  been  stirred  abustle  by  thousands  of 
hajji  of  all  denominations.    Even  a  few  fair  American 

and   English   pilgrims,   having   done   the   cities   of 

144 


EASTERTIDE  IN  PALESTINE 

western  Europe  and  steamed  up  the  Nile,  made 
their  way  to  the  Holy  City  and  showed  their  pretty 
faces  on  which  the  sun  had  cast  a  healthy  russet 
glow.  Their  yashmaked  and  veiled  Oriental  sisters 
also  thronged  the  streets  on  this  occasion  in  hideous 
white  or  flowered  shrouds,  all  ajostle  with  stately 
Arab,  lounging  Turk,  and  white,  blear-eyed  Jew. 
The  sickening  fumes  of  the  ill-washed  crowd  of 
Orientals  and  the  tar-patched  camels  thickened  the 
atmosphere.  I  was  heartily  glad  the  many  services 
were  over,  and  that  I  could  now  leave  the  stifling 
streets  for  the  fresh  air  of  the  country. 

On  the  road  to  Bethlehem,  a  short  distance  from 
Jerusalem,  I  came  across  Rachel's  Tomb,  rather  an 
unimportant-looking  building  of  white  plaster,  re- 
vered alike  by  Moslem,  Christian,  and  Jew;  for  it 
was  here  Rachel  died  giving  birth  to  Benjamin. 

By  approaching  the  birthplace  of  Christ  by  way 
of  the  Pools  and  Gardens  of  Solomon,  I  could  some- 
what understand  (what  puzzled  me  before)  how  the 
peasant  subsists,  for  although  the  general  appear- 
ance of  the  country  is  barren  and  sterile,  here  the 
path  to  Bethlehem  lies  through  one  of  the  many 
strips  of  valleys  full  of  fruit  and  corn,  which  intersect 
the  barren  heights  round  about  the  City  of  Zion. 

Passing  along  a  ridge  of  rocks,  by  the  side  of  an 
old  aqueduct  which  led  from  the  Cisterns  of  Solomon, 
I  suddenly  came  upon  Bethlehem,  rising  out  of  a 
valley  of  dark  olives,  and  wending  my  through  the 
trees  mounted  the  narrow  streets  and  came  upon 

145 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

women  in  picturesque  garb  washing  clothes  by  the 
side  of  a  well.  I  was  struck  with  their  beauty.  My 
guide  told  me  that  the  women  of  Bethlehem  were 
noted  for  their  comeliness,  then  I  remembered  that 
the  tradition  was  handed  down  from  the  days  of 
Christ. 

It  is  but  rarely  one  meets  a  pretty  face  in  Syria, 
but  Bethlehem  may  indeed  carry  off  the  palm  for 
the  beauty  of  its  female  inhabitants.  Many  are 
the  swains  who  come  from  less  favored  towns  to 
seek  the  pretty  faces.  The  general  custom  with  the 
people  of  Bethlehem  is,  however,  to  marry  among 
themselves.  The  betrothal  is  made  at  rather  an 
early  stage  of  existence.  I  passed  some  little  children 
playing  on  a  doorstep;  one  of  the  kiddies,  a  girl  about 
seven  years  of  age,  was  assisting  a  boy  to  build  up  a 
house  with  pebbles.  She  wore  a  locket  around  her 
neck  which  my  dragoman  took  into  his  hand,  ex- 
plaining to  me  that  it  was  worn  as  a  sign  of  her  en- 
gagement to  be  married.  The  little  girl  evidently 
understood  the  situation,  for  she  ran  away  and  hid 
her  face  against  the  wall.  The  youth  of  her  choice, 
about  nine  years  old,  looked  uncertain  whether  to 
express  his  indignation  of  our  treatment  of  his 
sweetheart  by  aiming  a  stone  at  us,  or  taking  the 
baksheesh  we  offered  him. 

I  was  introduced  to  a  well-to-do  young  farmer  of 

seventeen  autumns  who  was  already  blessed  with  a 

wife   and  family.     I  believe  that  his  parents   and 

several  young  ladies  thought  that  when  he  had 

146 


EASTERTIDE  IN  PALESTINE 

passed  his  sixteenth  birthday  he  was  becoming  a 
confirmed  bachelor,  but  at  last  Bethlehem  beauty 
smote  him  hip  and  thigh  before  he  was  yet  in  time 
to  invest  in  a  latchkey. 

However,  the  birthplace  of  Christ  is  not  visited 
by  the  pilgrim  for  the  manner  and  customs  of  its 
present  inhabitants,  but  for  the  Chapel  of  the  Na- 
tivity, and  the  many  other  holy  places,  though  one 
must  not  imagine  that  he  is  shown  the  veritable 
manger,  for  the  only  genuine  one  was  discovered 
by  the  Empress  Helena  and  packed  and  forwarded 
to  Rome.  This  Church  of  the  Nativity  is  crowded 
with  Scriptural  relics  and  historical  sites,  like  the 
church  at  Jerusalem,  all  conveniently  near  one 
another.  The  weary  pilgrim  must  continually  bless 
the  Empress  Helena  and  other  searchers  for  Scrip- 
tural truths  who  have  arranged  these  things  so  con- 
siderately for  his  convenience. 

The  Jews  also  do  their  little  pilgrimage  to  the 
Wailing  Place  against  the  walls  of  Zion.  Here,  every 
Friday,  men  and  women,  carrying  huge  and  tiny 
Hebrew  prayer  books,  wail  in  their  sorrow  for  the 
departed  majesty  of  Zion,  pull  their  earlocks  and 
beards  and  wring  their  hands;  and  the  women — 
young  and  old — sob  themselves  into  hysterics  over 
the  fallen  greatness  of  the  place.  A  touching  scene 
is  presented  by  many  an  eager  pilgrim  leaning  against 
the  weather-beaten  wall,  kissing  the  stone  and  weep- 
ing till  his  face  is  swollen  with  grief. 

On  going  up  to  the  Mount  of  Olives  we  crossed 
147 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

the  Valley  of  the  Kedron,  also  called  the  Valley  of 
Jehoshaphat.  There  is  a  tradition,  founded  on  a 
misinterpretation  of  Joel  iii:2,  that  this  gorge  will 
be  the  scene  of  the  Last  Judgment.  We  found  the 
famous  mount  inclosed  in  an  irregular  quadrangle 
within  a  high  plastered  wall.  On  knocking  at  the 
wicket  we  were  admitted  by  an  old  Franciscan  monk 
who  permitted  us  to  view  the  garden.  It  was  prettily 
laid  out  with  flowers  of  the  brightest  hues.  We  were 
told  that  the  olive  trees  were  the  same  under  which 
Christ  prayed  and  the  disciples  slept;  but  when 
Titus  occupied  the  environs  of  the  city  thirty  years 
after  the  Crucifixion  he  is  known  to  have  cut  down 
all  trees  for  the  use  of  his  army,  and  the  Crusaders 
testified  some  fifteen  hundred  years  afterward  to 
finding  the  whole  region  absolutely  destitute  of  wood. 
As  I  knew  only  too  well  what  armies  will  do  for  the 
sake  of  cover  and  camp  fires,  I  began  to  have  as 
much  faith  in  the  history  of  those  trees  pointed  out 
at  Gethsemane  as  I  had  already  in  the  verity  of 
most  things  exhibited  in  the  Holy  Land. 

In  this  neighborhood  is  the  Chapel  of  the  Tomb 
of  the  Virgin.  Her  parents  and  also  Joseph,  her 
husband,  are  supposed  to  be  buried  somewhere 
hereabouts.  Here  is  also  the  Cavern  of  the  Agony. 
The  sight  which  impresses  one  more  than  any  other 
in  or  about  the  City  of  Zion  is  the  magnificent  view 
from  the  Mount  of  Olives.  Within  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  after  leaving  Gethsemane  one  may  look  down 
upon  the  Valley  of  the  Jordan  and  the  cobalt-blue 

148 


EASTERTIDE  IN  PALESTINE 

of  the  Dead  Sea,  stretching  away  through  the  gray 
hills  on  the  east,  while  toward  the  north  are  seen  the 
upper  stretches  of  the  Valley  of  the  Kedron  (beyond 
which  rises  the  Scopus),  and  to  the  west  the  once 
mighty  city  of  Jerusalem,  with  its  stones  of  the 
Holy  Sepulcher  and  the  Mosque  of  Omar,  its 
ancient  walls  and  minarets. 

Under  the  dome  of  the  Mosque  of  Omar  stands  the 
famous  rock  on  which  the  Jews  offered  up  their 
sacrifices  and  where  Abraham  was  about  to  slay 
Isaac,  where  Moslem  tradition  places  Mohammed's 
ascension  to  heaven  on  his  miraculous  steed  El- 
Burak.  The  altar  on  that  occasion  was  about  to 
follow  the  horse  and  the  Prophet,  and  might  now 
have  been  with  them  in  glory  but  for  the  strong  ob- 
jection of  the  Angel  Gabriel,  who  evidently  did  not 
so  much  mind  the  horse  as  he  resented  the  rocks 
entering  heaven,  for  he  held  this  peripatetic  mass  of 
stone  down  to  the  earth — and  strenuous  work  it 
must  have  been!  He  evidently  had  an  enormous 
fist,  judging  by  the  finger  marks  he  has  left  imprinted 
upon  the  rock. 

Pilgrims,  when  once  in  the  Holy  Land,  after 
visiting  His  birthplace  and  the  spot  where  Christ 
suffered  death,  ought  not  forgo  taking  a  longer 
journey  from  Jerusalem  to  the  town  wherein  he 
lived  and  spent  his  boyhood's  days — Nazareth. 
The  present  town  is  built  on  the  site  of  the  ancient 
Nazareth,  and  lies  in  a  basin  on  the  south  slope  of 
Jebel-es-Sikh,  embosomed  in  a  framework  of  cactus 

149 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

hedges,  fig  and  olive  trees.  We  were  shown  the 
kitchens  of  the  Virgin,  and  house  and  workshop 
of  Joseph,  and  the  synagogue  in  which  Christ  is 
said  to  have  taught,  also  the  table  at  which  Christ 
supped  for  the  last  time  with  his  disciples.  I  won- 
dered if  they  dined  at  tables  in  those  days,  or 
squatted,  as  Orientals  have  for  thousands  of  years, 
round  dishes  placed  on  the  floor. 

As  this  book  is  supposed  to  be  a  chronicle  of  my 
adventures,  I  think  it  would  not  be  quite  fair  to  my 
readers  if  I  did  not  take  them  into  my  confidence 
and  confess  that  although  I  arrived  in  Judea  full 
of  fervor  for  its  holy  traditions,  as  a  good  pilgrim 
should  be,  everything  of  a  spiritual  kind  was,  so  to 
speak,  wiped  ofF  the  slate  in  the  flutter  of  an  eyelid 
one  morning  at  breakfast  in  our  monastery  pension, 
when  I  found  I  was  beginning  to  worship  at  the 
shrine  of  the  mundane  in  the  form  of  the  most 
beautiful  creature  (first  loves  are  all  like  this)  whom 
I  had  ever  seen  up  to  that  date  in  my  vagrant  life. 

My  heart  went  out  to  her  sweet  presence  the  in- 
stant I  set  eyes  on  her,  as  she  trifled  with  a  boiled 
egg.  I  would  not  attempt  to  describe  her  poise  and 
beauty.  I  will  simply  say  that  she  was  a  peach; 
she  was  even  more  lovely  than  that  tender,  luscious 
fruit,  for  she  had  blue  eyes  and  peaches  don't  run 
to  azure.  In  fact,  she  was  as  pretty  as  a  pink! 
Though  I  worshiped  that  lovely  slender  thread  of 
humanity,  I  was  too  much  enamored  ever  to  speak 
to  her.     I  would  gladly  converse  with  her  charming 

150 


EASTERTIDE  IN  PALESTINE 

mother  and  sister,  but  my  tongue  as  I  strove  to 
address  her  "clove  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth,"  as 
they  say  in  novels,  and  I  became  speechless.  There- 
fore, I  was  never  able  to  ask  her  if  she  returned  my 
passion  and,  by  way  of  recompense,  I  was  saved  the 
bitter  humiliation  of  a  negative.  After  days  of 
fruitless  endeavor  to  approach  her,  one  morning  I 
summoned  up  sufficient  courage  to  present  her  with 
a  bouquet.     She  simply  said,  "Thank  you." 

I  was  so  stunned  with  her  proximity  that  my 
tongue  began  the  "cloving"  business,  and  she  buried 
her  fair  face  in  the  flowers  and  smothered  her  ripple 
of  girlish  laughter.  I  followed  her  to  Jericho,  but  my 
camel,  wretched  brute,  was  evidently  at  outs  with 
her  ship  of  the  desert,  and  I  could  never  get  along- 
side of  her.  If  I  could  but  succeed,  I  thought,  our 
misery  on  those  ugly  monsters'  humps  might  have 
brought  us  together  in  common  sympathy,  but  it 
was  not  to  be.  I  never  saw  her  again,  though  I  fol- 
lowed the  little  family  to  Constantinople  and  called 
at  their  hotel.  The  mother  and  sister  received  me, 
but  she,  my  sunny  shrine  (I  forgot  to  mention  her 
hair,  which  was  the  most  gleaming  auburn  I  ever 
tried  to  put  on  canvas),  was  not  in.  A  year  later  I 
hunted  all  over  the  world  for  her,  sought  her  in 
San  Francisco,  Salt  Lake  City,  and  in  New  York.  I 
was  getting  quite  warm  on  her  track  in  Gotham  when 
an  imperative  cable  from  my  paper  urged  me  home- 
ward, for  there  was  another  campaign  in  sight,  and 
alas!  my  "quest  of  the  golden  girl"  ended  in  failure. 

151 


Chapter  VIII 

HILL    FIGHTING    FIERCE    AND    BLOODY 

The  beginning  of  the  trouble — Off  to  India — A  memorable  ride — The 
mystery  camp — /  am  toasted — /  guide  the  guides  with  my  luminous 
pony — Where  women  wear  the  breeches — Cavagnari — Back  to  India 
with  the  treaty — Through  the  hills — Across  the  plains — The  dark 
bungalows  and  the  daks — An  enjoyable  "sudden  death" — The  first 
Earl  Lytton  and  his  court — /  leave  for  "Down  Under." 

'"THE  threatened  hostilities  between  England  and 
-*■  Russia  never  came  off,  so  Skobeleff's  invitation 
to  join  his  army  fell  through.  But  as  a  caution  to 
Great  Britain  not  to  call  upon  her  Indian  armies 
to  assist  her  in  Europe  (a  contingent  of  native 
troops  had  already  been  sent  to  Malta),  Russia 
threatened  to  stir  up  trouble  on  the  northwest 
frontier  of  India.  This  threat  was  soon  actually 
carried  out,  for  owing  to  Russian  machinations  the 
Ameer  of  Afghanistan  became  truculent  and  had 
to  be  taught  a  lesson  by  a  considerable  force  of  com- 
bined British  and  Indian  troops,  which  was  sent 
to  occupy  Cabul,  the  capital  of  that  ghastly,  sterile 
country.  At  the  very  beginning,  the  Ameer's  troops 
holding  the  famous  fortress  of  Ali  Musjid  stopped 
our  advance  at  the  mouth  of  the  Khyber  Pass,  and 

152 


HILL  FIGHTING  FIERCE  AND  BLOODY 

the  fat  was  in  the  fire.  I  hurried  off  by  a  P.  &  0. 
mail  packet  to  Bombay  and  joined  the  British  under 
the  late  Gen.  Sir  Sam  Browne,  the  inventor  of  the 
famous  belt  so  popular  with  all  officers  of  the  Allied 
armies  in  the  recent  war.  With  the  capture  of  Ali 
Musjid  we  practically  opened  the  gates  of  Afghan- 
istan and  our  armies  poured  through  her  passes  and 
valleys. 

I  had  many  adventures  in  the  Khyber.  The 
fighting  there  was  always  fierce  and  bloody,  for  the 
Afghans  and  the  adjacent  tribes  are  cruel  and  merci- 
less in  their  methods  of  warfare.  But  in  spite  of 
this  they  were  looked  upon  by  British  soldiers  as 
sportsmen,  for  they  always  put  up  a  game  fight. 
During  the  advance  into  the  heart  of  the  country 
toward  Jellalabad,  there  was  no  better  officer  in  Her 
Majesty's  service  than  Colonel  Tytler,  V.C.  A 
tall,  gaunt  man,  some  six  feet  two,  he  made  a  strik- 
ing figure  when  he  rode  at  the  head  of  his  regiment 
of  plucky  little  dare-devil  Ghoorkas,  few  of  whom 
stood  more  than  six  inches  above  the  Colonel's 
waistbelt.  Archibald  Forbes,  who  had  already  ar- 
rived at  the  seat  of  hostilities,  had  described  this 
officer  to  me,  expressing  his  admiration  for  his 
soldierly  character  and  his  afFection  for  the  genial 
amiability  of  the  tall  soldier's  nature. 

I  was  looking  forward  to  a  pleasant  time  with 
him,  since  that  intrepid  war  correspondent  had  given 
me  a  chit  of  introduction.  But  my  journey  to  his 
advanced  position  was  fraught  with  adventure  and 

iS3 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

my  first  acquaintance  with  that  heroic  general  (for 
he  had  been  made  brigadier)  was,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  by  no  means  encouraging. 

I  left  the  British  camp  outside  Jellalabad  without 
having  notified  my  intentions  to  headquarters,  since 
there  was  a  possibility  of  danger  on  the  road  and  the 
anxiety  of  the  officials  for  my  safety  might  have 
delayed  my  departure  until  a  convoy  could  be  ar- 
ranged. My  bearer  was  a  Mussulman,  a  man  of 
fine  courage  and  alertness,  but  my  syce  was  a 
Hindoo,  who  had  a  marked  weakness  for  the  safety 
of  his  own  dusky  skin.  So  the  syce  I  mounted  upon 
my  baggage  camel,  and  Whewas  Khan,  my  bearer, 
and  I  would  alternately  share  the  smart  little  tat 
or  mountain  pony  which  my  good  friend  Forbes 
picked  up  for  me  at  the  beginning  of  the  campaign. 

Cholera  had  broken  out  severely  in  the  Punjab 
and  was  stealing  steadily  up  through  the  Afghan 
passes,  proving  a  more  ruthless  enemy  to  the  British 
soldier  and  his  dusky  brethren-in-arms  than  the 
most  fanatical  of  the  tribesmen.  The  heat  was  in- 
tense— some  114  degrees  in  the  shade  during  the  day 
and  106  degrees  clear  through  the  night  until  dawn, 
when  the  mercury  immediately  rose  with  the  sun. 
The  stones  littering  the  route  were  so  baked  with 
the  sun's  rays  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
take  one  up  and  place  it  in  one's  pocket  without 
burning  one's  fingers. 

My  poor  pony  suffered  much  from  his  blistered 
feet,    his    temper    being   what    I     should    imagine 

154 


HILL  FIGHTING  FIERCE  AND  BLOODY 

of  a  performing  bear's  when  dancing  on  hot  tiles. 
Limping  along  painfully  throughout  the  afternoon, 
toward  sunset  we  approached  the  rocky  eminences 
near  Basawul,  which  were  supposed  to  overshadow 
Tytler's  encampment. 

The  rocks  glowed  like  huge  coals  in  the  fierce 
glint  of  the  dying  sun.  The  air  was  so  thick  and 
nauseating  with  the  stench  of  dead  camels  that  one 
could  hardly  breathe.  As  the  sun  dropped  below 
the  horizon,  blood-red  flashes  of  fire  like  gigantic 
rubies  studded  the  plain  in  our  immediate  front,  but 
to  our  disgust  we  discovered  that  the  departing 
light  was  merely  glinting  on  the  metal  casing  of 
biscuit  tins  and  the  debris  of  a  deserted  camp. 
Black  night  quickly  settled  over  the  valley,  and 
with  it  came  a  depression  over  our  little  party  that 
it  was  difficult  to  shake  ofF. 

It  was,  indeed,  an  unfortunate  situation  and  a 
dangerous  one,  too,  for  after  nightfall  the  local 
tribesmen  had  the  cheerful  wont  of  cutting  up  all 
camp  followers  and  stragglers  not  yet  within  the 
British  lines.  I  looked  at  my  two  servants.  The 
syce  was  in  a  hopeless  state  of  funk,  but  Whewas's 
teeth  gleamed  in  the  dying  day — and  whenever  the 
Mohammedan  showed  his  ivories  I  knew  he  was 
bracing  himself  for  an  emergency.  We  kept  the 
groom  between  us  to  steady  his  nerves. 

Soon  the  atmosphere  became  so  dense  and  stifling 
that  it  seemed  like  battling  with  a  gauze  shroud. 
Parched  with  thirst  and  sick  with  hunger  we  still 

155 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

struggled  onward,  straining  our  eyes  in  search  of 
Tytler's  camp. 

Presently  a  light  leaped  up  out  of  the  blackness. 
I  immediately  whispered  a  halt.  Now,  like  will-o'- 
the-wisps,  flecks  of  fire  danced  in  front  of  us.  Could 
this  be  a  bivouac  of  the  enemy?  I  told  my  servant 
to  remain  where  he  was  while  I  crept  forward. 
After  stumbling  down  a  deep-cut  nullah  and  clam- 
bering up  the  opposite  bank,  I  could  discern  in  the 
distant  play  of  the  fires  a  few  white  tents.  It  was 
the  British  encampment.  I  would  have  shouted 
for  joy,  but  I  knew  that  any  noise  would  have 
brought  a  sharp  fusillade  in  our  direction.  I  stole 
back  to  my  servants  and  we  boldly  advanced. 

"Halt!  Who  come  dah?"  shouted  the  native 
sentry. 

"Friend,"  I  replied. 

"Parse,  fren:  alisvel!"  answered  the  Goorkha. 

The  news  of  our  approach  spread  rapidly,  and  out 
of  a  large  marquee  hurried  two  or  three  officers. 

"Glad  to  see  you,"  said  one  as  I  rolled  out  of  my 
saddle. 

"Qui-hye!"  shouted  another,  "brandy  peg  low. 
Tuldi  Karo!"  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  a  servant 
appeared  with  the  cooling  draught,  a  big  soda-and- 
brandy  with  a  dash  of  snow  in  it  from  the  Safed 
Koh  or  Whitecap  Mountain,  which  loomed  over  the 
valley.    I  greedily  drained  the  peg. 

"That's  only  to  moisten  your  throat,"  they  said. 

"Have  another,  just  to  quench  your  thirst — and 
156 


HILL  FIGHTING  FIERCE  AND  BLOODY 

then  we  will  allow  talking.    You  are  the  first  we  have 
seen  for  an  age." 

"Well,"  thought  I,  "this  is  indeed  hospitable." 

"Why,  it's  Villiers — good  fellow!  Just  in  time 
for  dinner,"  cried  the  officers  in  chorus. 

My  men  went  off  with  their  kind  and  I  was  hustled 
into  the  mess  tent.  As  I  seated  myself  at  the  table, 
faces  beaming  with  good  nature  turned  to  mine. 
I  inwardly  congratulated  myself.  I  had  never  met 
with  more  cordial  hospitality  in  my  life. 

As  I  commenced  to  eat,  an  orderly  entered  the 
tent  and  whispered  to  one  of  the  officers,  who  im- 
mediately got  up  and  followed  him  out.  Then 
another  orderly  spoke  to  the  man  on  my  left. 

"Excuse  me,  Villiers,"  and  he  hurriedly  dis- 
appeared. 

Soon  the  one  sitting  opposite  me  was  summoned 
in  the  same  mysterious  way.  By  and  by  the  first 
who  had  quitted  the  tent  came  back.  All  eyes  were 
anxiously  turned  on  him. 

"Any  more?"  asked  one. 

"How  many?"  inquired  another. 

The  answer  slowly  came,  "Two;  worse  luck." 

"Oh,  that's  nothing!  We  had  three  before  soup 
last  night." 

I  turned  to  the  man  on  my  right  and  asked, 
"What  are  they  talking  about?" 

"Fresh  cases,"  he  replied. 

"Cases?"  I  exclaimed  with  no  little  astonishment. 
"Cases  of  what?" 

157 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

"Well,"    he    grimly    smiled;    "not    champagne — 

I  must  have  still  looked  bewildered.  "Ah!  Ah! 
Good  joke  that,"  I  rejoined,  rather  stupidly. 

"You  don't  understand,"  said  he.  "Cholera,  of 
course." 

"Cholera!  Oh,  yes;  I  see,"  I  faintly  murmured, 
then  did  it  strike  me  that  these  officers'  uniforms 
had  a  very  familiar  look.  My  genial  friends  were 
all  medical  men.  Now  I  could  understand  their 
delight  in  seeing  me — their  sad  lack  of  news.  I 
had  struck  a  cholera  camp!  These  poor  fellows  had 
been  isolated  from  the  outer  world  for  months.  I 
almost  choked  with  emotion.  My  heart  seemed  to 
sink  into  my  boots.  I  tried  to  pull  myself  together, 
poured  out  another  peg  and  was  about  to  swallow 
it,  when  the  doctors  lifted  their  tumblers  and  drank 
my  health. 

"So  good  of  you  to  take  pity  on  us.  Just  like  you 
war  correspondents.  Don't  seem  to  care  a  fig  for 
anything." 

"Well,"  thought  I,  struggling  against  a  chill  that 
seemed  to  freeze  my  heart,  "anyway,  I  must  keep 
up  the  reputation  with  which  our  profession  has 
been  so  handsomely  credited." 

So  I  staggered  to  my  feet  and  responded  to  the 
toast.  I  told  them  that  as  I  was  passing  by  I 
thought  I  would  look  them  up — in  my  province 
as  a  war  correspondent  it  was  only  right;  in  fact, 
my  duty.  I  protested  that  I  was  never  happier 
in  my  life,  and  they  could  look  upon  me  as  a  veri- 

158 


HILL  FIGHTING  FIERCE  AND  BLOODY 

table  special  edition.  I  would  give  them  all  the 
news  I  contained. 

After  a  short  conversation — but  a  very  long  one 
to  me — I  shared  the  tent  of  one  of  the  doctors,  but 
not  his  slumbers.  I  was  never  so  wide  awake  in 
my  life,  and  I  vowed  that  if  I  found  myself  alive  at 
dawn  I  would  hurry  from  that  pestilence-stricken 
camp  before  breakfast.  During  the  night  a  hot 
wind  sprang  up,  coming  upon  us  like  the  breath  from 
a  baker's  oven,  choking  us  with  dust  and  flaying 
our  faces  with  burning  particles  of  sand.  Lights 
flickered  from  tent  to  tent  as  the  surgeons  went 
about  their  work,  and  the  groans  and  wails  of  the 
doomed  patients  were  heard  above  the  soughing  of 
the  wind.  When  dawn  came  many  brave  men  in 
that  bivouac  of  misery  had  died.  The  stretcher- 
bearers  were  already  carrying  their  inanimate  bur- 
dens to  the  little  cemetery  on  the  parched-up  plain 
as  I  turned  my  back  with  a  sigh  of  relief  on  the 
cholera-stricken  camp. 

j  When  we  gained  the  main  road  to  the  Khyber 
the  rocks  began  to  glow  once  more,  warming  up  the 
valley  to  a  heat  one  would  think  would  sterilize 
and  disinfect  the  most  pestilence-ridden  country  in 
the  world.  Yet  clinging  to  the  shadow  of  the  rocks 
by  the  roadside  were  corpses  of  stricken  hillmen, 
who  had  come  down  from  their  lairs  to  cut  up 
stragglers,  but  had  with  swift  justice  been  taken 
by  the  deadly  sickness  while  waiting  for  their  vic- 
tims.   Never  shall  I  forget  the  horrible  nausea  which 

vol.  i.— 11  *59 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

filled  the  air  all  the  way  on  this  ghastly  journey 
across  the  plains  of  Chadeh. 

It  was  nearing  sunset  once  more  and  we  had  not 
yet  gained  Tytler's  command,  when  presently  we  saw 
a  cloud  of  dust  on  the  road,  coming  in  our  direction. 

"Well,  sir,  and  where  is  your  escort?"  said  an 
angry  voice,  as  a  tall,  gaunt  figure  on  a  small  gray 
horse  rode  toward  me. 

"I  have  none,"  I  replied;  "only  my  two  servants." 

"What,  sir!  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  have 
ridden  here  from  Jellalabad  without  protection?" 

I  was  stammering  out  a  reply  when  the  officer 
interrupted  me. 

"Damn!  Don't  think  I  care  a  fig  about  your 
carcass,  sir!  It's  my  men  I  am  anxious  about. 
If  you  were  cut  up  it  would  be  my  duty  to  rescue 
your  remains,  and  perhaps  in  doing  so  I  might  lose 
one  or  two  of  my  valuable  little  Ghoorkas.  Do  you 
understand,  sir?  Now  you  have  arrived,  kindly 
keep  in  camp  and  report  yourself  to  me  this  evening." 
And  the  peppery  officer  rode  on. 

After  a  wash  and  brush-up  I  found  upon  reporting 
myself  that  it  was  Tytler,  V.C.,  himself  whom  I 
had  met  on  the  road. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  he  glanced  at  Forbes's  letter, 
"our  first  introduction  was  not  a  happy  one.  The 
fact  is,  only  yesterday  we  lost  three  grass  cutters. 
The  hillmen  sliced  them  up  and  left  them  on  the 
very  road  you  came  by  this  evening.  Now,  Mr. 
Villiers,  I  don't  wish  to  make  things  unpleasant  for 

160 


HILL  FIGHTING  FIERCE  AND  BLOODY 

you,  but  if  you  want  to  sketch  outside  the  actual 
encampment,  I  will  with  much  pleasure  give  you  a 
few  Ghoorkas  to  look  after  you." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word,  and  many  a  sketch 
I  took  while  his  plucky  pygmies  were  scouting  round 
about  me. 

One  of  the  smartest  and  most  dare-devil  officers 
in  the  Indian  military  service  I  met  with  Tytler's 
command  was  Major  Wigram-Battye,  of  the  Guides; 
and  one  of  the  keenest  and  bravest  subalterns  was 
the  long-armed  Irishman,  Pollock  Hamilton,  of  the 
same  famous  cavalry.  Battye  first  smelt  powder 
at  Saarbruck  in  '71  with  the  Prussians,  where  the 
unfortunate  Prince  Imperial  received  his  baptism 
of  fire;  and  that  same  day  Battye  received  his,  a 
splinter  of  a  French  shell  laying  him  low  for  many 
weeks  and  spoiling  his  intended  holiday — for  he  was 
on  leave  for  India,  and  had,  as  he  said,  "looked  in 
at  the  fun  while  en  route  for  England." 

Our  encampment  was  pitched  on  a  sweltering 
plain  between  Lundi  Khotal  and  Jellalabad,  where 
the  general  with  his  mixed  force  was  keeping  a  section 
of  the  main  highway  clear  of  the  enemy.  The  hos- 
tile tribes  were  busy  sniping  all  round  us,  and  five 
hundred  yards  from  the  camp  was  a  dangerous 
vicinity.  At  last  this  impudent  menace  to  the 
hated  invader  compelled  Tytler  to  make  reprisals 
on  the  caves  and  lairs  of  the  tribesmen. 

Our  general  was  a  cautious  soldier;  little  was 
known  of  his  intended  movements  by  any  one  in 

161 


VILLI  ERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  A D VENTURE 

camp  till  the  moment  he  was  about  to  strike.  One 
afternoon  I  was  wandering  through  the  cavalry 
lines  when  I  espied  Battye  and  young  Hamilton 
seated  smoking  in  the  shadow  of  their  tents.  On 
seeing  me  they  would  not  let  me  pass  till  I  had 
taken  a  peg  and  a  cheroot. 

"There's  something  in  the  wind  to-day,"  said 
Battye.  "There's  an  ominous  twinkle  in  the  general's 
eye,  and  I  know  we  shall  see  some  sport.  It's  the 
Cookies  this  time"  (as  the  Tommies  call  a  blood- 
thirsty tribe  known  as  the  Khoukikails). 

I  remained  smoking  and  chatting  with  my  friends 
till  sundown,  when,  as  soon  as  it  was  dark,  an  un- 
usual restlessness  seemed  to  possess  the  camp. 
Battye  puffed  at  his  cheroot  vigorously. 

"Hamilton,"  said  he,  "you  have  never  seen  a 
fight.  If  one  comes  to-night  you  shall  go  in  my  place 
— for  some  of  ours  must  stay,  so  we  can't  both  leave 
the  camp." 

"By  Jove!"  responded  Hamilton.  "It's  awfully 
good  of  you.  Many  thanks.  Why,  here's  an  orderly 
from  the  general  coming  up  the  lines." 

In  another  moment  Battye  had  read  the  chit,  and 
hastily  turning  to  his  subaltern,  said:  "Take  fifty 
of  ours  and  join  Utterson.  You'll  have  a  good 
chance  of  getting  in  with  that  'sword  arm'  of  yours, 
I  hope,  before  sunrise." 

"Villiers,  here's  a  chance  for  you,"  added  Battye, 
turning  to  me.  "Go  and  see  what  stuff  our  Guides 
are  made  of." 

162 


HILL  FIGHTING  FIERCE  AND  BLOODY 

I  hurried  back  to  my  tent,  ordered  my  syce  to 
saddle  my  pony,  and  within  a  few  minutes  joined  the 
Guides  at  their  rendezvous. 

It  was  just  the  night  for  a  raid — absolutely  black 
and  so  dense  that  one  could  almost  feel  the  darkness. 

"Drop  that  light,  you  fool!  None  of  that.  Pipes 
out!  Pass  the  word  there!"  hissed  an  officer  under 
his  breath  as  the  small  force  crawled  noiselessly 
over  the  undulating  plain. 

"Villiers,"  whispered   Hamilton,   "do  you   know 
.what  we  are  going  to  do?" 
•    "No." 

"Well,  this  is  it:  We  play  at  this  game  till  just 
before  dawn,  when  we  are  supposed  to  be  in  a  posi- 
tion round  a  cave  village  a  couple  of  thousand  feet 
up  in  the  hills,"  And  he  pointed  to  a  black  mass 
looming  in  our  front,  the  Safeh  Kho  range,  whose 
serrated  outlines  could  just  be  distinguished  as  the 
stars  arose  and  seemed,  like  beacons,  to  rest  for  a 
moment  on  the  crest  ere  at  last  they  cleared  the  sky- 
line and  climbed  the  sky. 

"By  Jove!"  whispered  my  friend.  "It  is  dark 
in  these  foothills.  Where's  that  native  guide?  Ah! 
There  he  is." 

We  were  moving  in  Indian  file,  and  the  long, 
sinuous  line  of  horsemen  heaved  and  sank  as  it 
slowly  advanced,  looking  like  a  mighty  serpent 
writhing  its  way  over  the  uneven  country.  One  of 
the  troopers  behind  me,  whose  horse  had  been  restive 
for  some  time,  grunted  out  something  in  his  own 

163 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

lingo  as  the  animal  suddenly  swerved  out  of  line. 
Hamilton  rode  up  to  him,  and  then  a  quiet  laugh 
followed. 

"Villiers,  this  trooper  says  your  pony  is  be- 
witched. His  tail  is  on  fire  and  this  man's  horse 
won't  stand  it  any  longer.  And,  great  Scott! — 
the  man's  right.  Just  look  at  that!"  Sure  enough, 
whenever  my  pony  switched  his  tail  a  spray  of  pale- 
blue  light  flashed  through  the  air. 

"We  have  got  into  an  electrically  charged  at- 
mosphere," continued  Hamilton,  "and  your  horse 
is  playing  the  medium.  Some  of  ours  may  start 
the  racket  soon;  but,  in  the  meantime,  do  me  a 
favor:  ride  by  the  side  of  the  native  pilot  and  act 
as  an  electric  torch  to  show  us  the  road.  You  will 
merit  the  thanks  of  the  Empire  if  you  guide  the 
Guides  to  glory  with  that  pony's  tail." 

In  a  few  moments  I  was  in  front,  proudly  leading 
the  way.  Next  morning,  I  believe,  the  following 
verse  was  read  in  camp: 

Freddy  has  a  little  horse 

Whose  tail  was  bright  as  snow, 

And  everywhere  that  Gee-gee  went 
The  Guides  were  bound  to  go. 

The  tail  of  my  pony  went  on  practically  striking 
matches  till  dawn  stole  over  the  mountain  and  shut 
off  his  usefulness.  But  night  still  hung  over  the 
plains.  Afar  off,  piled-up,  facing  the  eastern  glow 
and  apparently  suspended  in  midair,  were  the  peaks 

164 


HILL  FIGHTING  FIERCE  AND  BLOODY 

of  the  Hindoo-Khoosh,  the  highest  range  in  the 
world,  whose  snow  caps  were  now  roseate  pink  in 
the  flush  of  the  morning  sun. 

We  snatched  a  few  moments'  sleep  lying  along 
the  backs  of  our  horses  who  lifted  their  heads  and 
stiffened  their  necks  till  their  manes  served  as 
pillows — a  dodge  I  had  never  seen  before,  and  in 
which  Hamilton  initiated  me.  As  we  waited,  the 
lower  peaks  of  the  hills  slowly  took  up  the  light 
and  the  dawn  spread  down  into  the  valley.  Our 
infantry  seemed  to  be  swallowed  up  in  the  in- 
equalities of  the  ground,  for  apparently  we  were 
on  the  brink  of  a  steep,  stony  declivity.  Below  was 
the  entrance  to  a  narrow  khor,  or  valley,  in  the  rocky 
sides  of  which  were  the  dark  mouths  of  the  caves 
where  lurked  the  enemy. 

Not  a  gleam  of  daylight  had  yet  penetrated  this 
sullen  mountain  fastness,  and  its  wild  inhabitants 
were  apparently  still  sleeping.  Their  ominous 
reveille  was,  however,  near  at  hand,  for  suddenly  the 
sharp  rattle  of  musketry  broke  the  stillness,  making 
the  blood  course  through  our  veins  and  at  once 
driving  the  chill  of  the  raw  dawn  from  our  bodies. 
On  the  rocky  ridge  our  gaunt  horsemen  now  sat  as 
still  as  the  South  African  assvogel  does  when  about 
to  pounce  on  its  prey.  An  orderly  came  galloping 
up  behind  us  and  spoke  to  the  commander. 

"What,  there?"  said  Hamilton,  as  he  keenly 
listened  to  the  man's  story  and  pointed  below. 

Yes;  and  no  time  to  be  lost,  sir." 
165 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

Hamilton  rode  in  front  of  his  squadron  and  gave 
a  sharp  word  of  command  to  his  men.  The  troop- 
ers unsheathed  their  sabers  and  long  shafts  of  light 
clove  the  air  as  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  stealing  over 
the  hill  glinted  from  the  steel.  I  looked  down  from 
the  slope.  Surely  he  did  not  mean  the  men  to  take 
that  drop? 

"It's  certain  disaster,"  thought  I.  It  was  a  good 
four  hundred  feet,  almost  sheer,  to  the  base.  A 
rifle  spoke  from  among  the  rocks,  then  the  rattle  of 
the  fire  became  general.  Puffs  of  smoke  outlined 
the  ridge  of  the  khor  in  a  semicircle,  and  out  from  the 
narrow  defile,  running  like  hairs,  came  the  surprised 
Cookies,  leaping  the  rocks  and  bowlders,  taking 
cover,  or  hurrying  toward  the  level  below  us  for  the 
purpose  of  climbing  our  hill. 

Hamilton  waved  his  sword  and  in  a  flash  the  Guides 
swept  down  the  terrible  declivity.  For  a  moment 
there  was  a  scattering  of  stones  and  streaks  of 
lightning  from  the  sabers,  then  horses  and  men  were 
hidden  in  a  veil  of  dust.  When  this  lifted  I  saw  the 
hillmen  beaten  to  their  knees  or  running  helter- 
skelter  back  to  their  khor.  The  Guides — not  a  man 
unhorsed — were  slashing  and  cutting  their  way 
through  them,  till  they  were  lost  in  the  shadows  of 
the  valley.  My  pony  had  done  his  work,  he  had 
led  those  gallant  horsemen  to  glory,  and  now  we 
stood  gazing  after  them.  Then  we  negotiated  a 
less  exciting  and  precipitous  path  and  joined  the 
infantry.    Our  firing  line  was  still  busy,  for  the  devil 

1 66 


HILL  FIGHTING  FIERCE  AND  BLOODY 

is  not  easily  knocked  out  of  the  Afghan.  But  pres- 
ently they  broke  and  scattered  up  the  sides  of  the 
khor  under  a  leaden  hail  under  which  it  seemed 
impossible  for  any  being  to  live. 

"For  God's  sake,  don't  fire  at  that!  That's  a 
woman!"  said  I,  as  a  blue-trousered  figure  fell  in 
front  of  one  of  the  caves. 

"How  are  we  to  know  t'other  from  which," 
growled  the  trooper,  "when  the  lydies  wear  trou- 
sers and  the  other  beggars  sport  skirts?" 

"Well,  you  know  now,  you  stupid  brute!"  shouted 
a  sergeant.  The  "Cease  fire!"  was  sounding  down 
the  line,  so  I  hurried  with  the  surgeon  to  where  the 
woman  had  fallen.  She  was  lying  in  a  faint  across 
a  native  bed  in  front  of  the  cave.  A  shot  had  passed 
through  her  thigh.  We  soon  got  down  on  the  wound 
and  stopped  the  bleeding.  I  was  assisting  the  doctor 
when  I  received  a  kick  in  the  ribs  and  discovered 
a  small  boy,  about  seven  years  of  age,  who,  thinking 
I  was  hurting  his  mother,  was  furiously  attacking 
me  with  hands,  head,  and  feet.  The  little  brat  kept 
up  the  assault  while  we  were  dressing  the  woman's 
wound.  Then  a  crowd  of  Tommies  stood  round  to 
see  fair  play  between  us  and  it  was  a  most  igno- 
minious tussle  for,  at  last,  I  had  to  sit  on  him  till 
he  was  pacified  by  his  mother  whom  we  had  meantime 
made  comfortable  and  rather  grateful  for  what  we 
had  done. 

Battye's  second  in  command  did  well  for  his  first 

fight.    He  had  captured  sixty  prisoners  and  rounded 

167 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

up  eight  hundred  sheep  and  kine.  That  night  we 
changed  our  diet  for  roast  mutton,  after  many  weeks 
of  bully-beef. 

This  little  hill  war  was  at  last  settled,  thanks  to 
the  tact  and  the  knowledge  of  Afghan  character  of 
our  political  officer,  Major  Cavagnari,  who  per- 
suaded the  Ameer  Yakoub  to  come  and  treat  with 
the  British.  I  called  the  afternoon  the  major  was 
kneeling,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  on  the  floor  of  his  tent, 
sealing  up  the  treaty — a  long  roll  of  parchment — 
with  wax  by  the  aid  of  a  candle. 

His  servant  brought  in  a  cup  of  tea.  I  said,  with 
a  smile,  "That's  poor  stuff*  to  drink  on  an  occasion 
like  this.  Wait  a  moment  till  I  bring  something 
else."  I  ran  across  the  compound  to  a  certain  regi- 
mental mess  where  I  knew  there  were  a  few  bottles 
left  and  brought  back  some  champagne,  and  the 
auspicious  event  was  celebrated  in  proper  manner. 

It  was  a  sad  day  for  me  when,  after  being  invited 
by  Cavagnari  to  join  his  expedition  to  Cabul,  the 
Viceroy  wired  to  say  it  was  impossible,  as  only  a 
small  party  was  going — for  the  arrangement  with 
the  Ameer  was  that  only  a  certain  number  of  Eng- 
lish should  be  sent  to  his  capital,  so  that  their  pres- 
ence should  not  excite  the  fanaticism  of  its  populace. 

I  little  thought  when  I  said  good-by  to  the  major 
that  it  was  for  the  last  time  and  that  my  life  was 
unwittingly  saved  by  the  Viceroy's  refusal,  for  within 
a  month  Sir  Louis  and  his  gallant  party  were  cut 
to  pieces  by  the  treacherous  Caublese. 

1 68 


HILL  FIGHTING  FIERCE  AND  BLOODY 

I  joined  the  officer  carrying  the  treaty  to  Simla 
to  be  ratified  by  the  Viceroy.  In  traveling  down 
from  Afghanistan  to  the  Indian  plains  we  met  with 
quite  exciting  times.  The  stray,  convalescing,  or 
dead  camels  we  came  across  littering  the  narrow 
passes  of  the  hills  frightened  our  mountain  tats  or 
ponies,  and  there  was  always  the  risk  of  being  bucked 
over  a  precipice.  Arriving  in  the  Peshawa  Valley, 
we  had  to  take  ekkas  or  the  dak  gharry,  for  railways 
were  few  and  far  between. 

There  was  in  those  days  simply  a  pontoon  of 
boats  across  the  Indus.  Now  it  is  spanned  by  a 
fine  bridge.  What  railways  there  were  in  the  north- 
west were  linked  up  by  the  daks  or  post  wagons,  and 
to  connect  with  these  from  outlying  districts  the 
ekka  was  used.  This  was  the  most  uncomfortable 
of  all  conveyances  in  India;  the  cart  was  built  of 
bamboo,  and  was  springless,  with  a  sort  of  um- 
brella roof  to  keep  the  sun  off.  One's  legs  were 
stretched  out  in  front,  the  feet  resting  on  a  bam- 
boo bar  that  stuck  out  over  the  horse's  back.  The 
animals  were  watered  by  the  driver  with  a  shal- 
low pan  which  suggested  giving  a  saucer  of  milk 
to  a  cat. 

The  dak  gharry  was  a  bit  more  ambitious,  but 
still  only  a  lumbering,  oblong  vehicle  and  not  up- 
holstered. The  baggage  was  strapped  on  the  roof 
and  the  interior  consisted  simply  of  bare  walls  and 
a  floor  where  was  placed  one's  bedding;  for  in 
traveling  through  India  the  principal  item  was  the 

169 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

bed.  Under  this  was  a  deep  well  in  which  one 
could  put  the  stores  of  food  made  necessary  by  the 
fact  that  on  arriving  after  a  weary  journey  at  the 
dak  bungalow — the  native  hotel  for  travelers — there 
was  absolutely  nothing  supplied  but  the  bare  room. 
Now  the  rooms  are,  in  a  manner,  upholstered,  but 
in  the  days  long  ago  I  had  to  carry  quite  a  camp 
outfit  to  be  at  all  decently  comfortable.  Yet  the 
manager  of  the  hotel  would  talk  big  enough.  With 
a  broad  grin  of  welcome  on  his  lank  chocolate-hued 
face,  he  would  say,  when  I  asked  him  what  he  had 
to  eat,  "Whatever  your  Highness  desires  shall  be 
forthcoming!" 

A  hungry  man  wants  no  ambitious  dish,  so  I 
would  order,  "Mutton  chops  and  tea."  With  a 
courtly  smile  he  would  disappear  only  shortly  to 
return  with  a  sad  look  of  sympathy  on  his  face, 
saying,  "Your  Excellency,  it  is  with  deep  regret 
the  cook  tells  me  there  were  no  sheep  to  be  found 
to  be  slaughtered  to-day." 

"Oh  well,  a  beefsteak  will  do,  but  hurry  up!" 
Away  he  flies  and  presently  comes  back  again  with 
sad  eyes  and  informs  me  that  the  beef  in  the  larder 
has  been  carried  off  by  a  devil  of  a  pariah  and 
can't  be  found.  "Well,"  I  cry  in  despair,  "What 
on  earth  have  you  got?" 

"Your  Mightiness,  there  is  a  young  and  tender 
bird  in  the  compound  awaiting  the  honor  of  appeas- 
ing your  Highness's  appetite." 

"Well,  for  Heaven's  sake,  bring  it  along!"  Away 
170 


HILL  FIGHTING  FIERCE  AND  BLOODY 

he  would  shuffle  again  and  I  would  hear  a  consid- 
erable scurrying  of  feet,  the  flutter  of  wings,  mur- 
murings  and  cackling  from  the  compound,  and 
finally  a  loud  squawk.  After  a  ten-minute  wait 
the  steaming  dish  is  brought  with  considerable  pomp 
to  the  table.  It  goes  by  the  name  of  "sudden  death," 
yet  it  is  good  and  remarkably  tender  in  spite  of  its 
haste  to  appease  my  hunger. 

At  all  the  dak  bungalows  down  to  the  line  of  the 
railway  the  same  farce  was  played  by  the  khansaman; 
after  all  the  obsequious  lies  and  palaver  there  was 
only  one  common  dish  to  the  menu;  that  was  "sud- 
den death." 

The  horses  supplied  by  the  post  en  route  were 
fairly  good  once  they  were  started,  and  they  would 
gallop  all  the  way  without  stopping  till  the  next 
dak  was  reached,  but  the  starting  always  required 
time.  One  pair  of  beasts  I  remember  took  several 
minutes  to  move;  we  tried  all  kinds  of  dodges  to 
make  them  stir.  The  native  hostlers  slung  ropes 
round  their  forelegs,  then  others  with  whips  waited 
by  their  flanks  for  the  blast  of  the  post  horn  which 
was  the  signal  for  the  onslaught.  With  a  jerk  that 
almost  capsized  it  the  wagon  started  on  its  wild 
journey  to  the  blast  of  the  trumpet  and  the  shouts 
and  yells  of  the  villagers.  Even  the  pariah  dog,  no 
doubt  primed  with  the  beefsteak,  barked  at  the  heels 
of  the  careering  steeds,  and  all  for  a  time  went  well. 
There  is  a  legend  concerning  these  dak  horses  that 
if  they  once  stop  between  posts,  nothing  will  move 

171 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

them  but  the  ignition  of  a  bunch  of  cornstalks  under 
their  bellies. 

The  railway  traveling  has  always  been  fairly  com- 
fortable. There  was  plenty  of  ice  handed  in  at  each 
station  in  little  boxes  to  replenish  the  traveler's 
thawing  store.  A  window  on  either  side  was  fitted 
with  tatties,  circular  frames  of  steel  covered  with 
coconut  matting  that  slowly  revolved  with  the 
motion  of  the  wheels,  dipping  into  a  trough  of  water, 
so  that  the  hot  air  from  outside  passed  through  this 
wet  sieve  and  was  cooled.  With  an  ice  pack  in  a 
towel  on  one's  head  and  one's  mouth  close  up  to 
the  tattle  ready  to  suck  in  the  air  whenever  the 
train  stopped  and  shut  off  the  movement  of  the 
tattle,  one  could  minimize  the  suffering  from  heat. 
It  was  summer  time  and  the  temperature  was  as 
only  Indian  heat  can  be  in  June.  On  arriving  at  a 
station  it  was  a  common  thing  to  see  a  dead  body 
removed  from  a  carriage  and  at  once  placed  in  one 
of  the  coffins  always  ready  for  any  unfortunate  who 
had  dropped  with  heat  apoplexy. 

When  I  arrived  at  Simla,  the  summer  quarters  of 
the  elite  of  India,  en  route  to  Bombay,  Lord  Lytton 
asked  me  to  dine  at  the  Viceregal  Lodge.  The  house 
party  was  very  bright  and  gay.  An  aide-de-camp 
came  up  to  me  and  asked,  "Whom  would  you  like 
to  take  in  to  dinner?  Let  your  artistic  taste  go 
free;  choose  the  prettiest  woman  and  march  her  in." 
This  was  no  easy  matter,  for  I  had  been  away  from 
feminine  society  so  long  that  I  was  impressed  with 

172 


HILL  FIGHTING  FIERCE  AND  BLOODY 

them  all  so  as  to  be  on  the  horns  of  a  dilemma.  At 
last  I,  like  the  Oriental  potentate  of  the  legend, 
threw  my  handkerchief  and  sailed  away  with  my 
beauty.  I  suppose  I  was  particularly  delighted  with 
everything  that  evening,  for  I  had  only  a  few  hours 
previously  finished  a  ghastly  journey;  it  had  been 
a  weary  march  of  six  days  in  a  temperature  of  114 
degrees  in  the  shade,  through  a  cholera  area  where 
men  lay  cramped  in  agony;  for  at  Jumrod,  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Khyber,  a  squadron  of  the  10th  Hus- 
sars had  bivouacked,  and  in  less  than  two  hours 
eighteen  strong  healthy  men  were  in  the  throes  of 
the  terrible  disease.  I  was,  therefore,  absolutely 
enthralled  by  the  welcome  change. 

His  Excellency  was  exceedingly  affable  and  lis- 
tened with  great  interest  to  my  adventures.  "We 
will  join  the  ladies  at  once,"  said  he,  after  dinner; 
"we  can  smoke  our  cigarettes  with  them  while  Mr. 
Villiers  is  showing  us  his  sketches." 

This  was  the  first  time  I  was  made  acquainted 
with  this  excellent  custom;  it  was  one  of  his  innova- 
tions, and  he  introduced  many  other  free  and  easy 
ideas  into  Indian  society,  which  some  of  the  older  and 
less  progressive  of  his  guests  looked  upon  with  much 
perturbation.  A  few  years  later  I  met  him  as  the 
First  Earl  of  Lytton,  at  luncheon  at  the  late  Lady 
Dorothy  Nevill's  house  in  London.  He  was  much 
changed  and  had  lost  most  of  his  charm  of  manner 
and  appeared  dull  and  morose.  He  seemed  to  be 
utterly  broken  in  spirit  by  the  vindictive  and  unfair 

173 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

attacks  made  upon   his  administration  of  India  by 
the  leaders  of  the  Liberal  party. 

At  Bombay  I  caught  a  steamer  for  the  Antipodes, 
for  my  paper  had  sent  me  instructions  to  do  the 
opening  of  the  first  International  Exhibition  in 
Australasia  at  Sydney,  New  South  Wales. 


DECADE 
i  880-1  890 


Chapter  IX 

1880-1890 

DOWN     UNDER 

Of  to  the  Antipodes — Dances  and  pillow-fights  by  the  way — Ceylon — 
Centuries-old  tortoise — Sensitive  plants — Sydney,  the  glory  of  Aus- 
tralasia— Gayety,  fun,  and  frolic — New  Zealand — Her  urbane  governor 
—  Maoris — An  impending  rising — The  King  Country — Pink  and 
white  terraces — A  seismic  upheaval — Hawaii — San  Frincisco. 

'TTIE  passage  from  Bombay  to  Ceylon  was  calm 
*■  enough  for  dancing,  and  the  P.  &  O.  steamers 
in  those  days  catered  to  the  amusement  of  the 
passengers  and  endeavored  to  make  them  as 
comfortable  as  possible.  We  were  allowed  to  sleep 
on  deck,  for  the  heat  in  the  stuffy  little  cabins 
was  terrible.  The  ladies,  to  appease  the  ire  of 
our  Mrs.  Grundy,  were  shut  off  from  the  gentlemen 
by  a  zereba  of  deck  chairs;  and  of  a  morning,  in  all 
the  glory  of  their  dishabille,  they  were  handed  cofFee 
and  tea  across  the  barriers.  Sometimes,  if  the  night 
was  too  hot  for  one  to  sleep,  a  pillow  fight  would  take 
place  between  the  sexes  till  the  captain  came  down 
from  his  quarters  and  put  an  end  to  hostilities  by 
threatening  to  send  us  back  to  our  cabins.    Then  all 

177 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

was  quiet  till  the  lascars  began  to  wash  down  decks, 
when  the  ladies  were  the  first  to  retire,  their  departure 
being  often  accelerated  by  a  few  pillows  as  they 
skipped  down  the  companionway. 

At  Point-de-Galle,  on  the  southern  end  of  the 
island  of  Ceylon,  we  had  to  change  steamers  for  the 
line  running  down  to  the  Antipodes.  While  waiting 
for  the  Australian  boat,  there  was  time  to  go  ashore 
and  ride  down  the  main  street  astride  the  famous 
centuries-old  tortoise,  or  even  to  go  farther  afield 
to  Wakwela  to  see  the  sensitive-plant  bushes  which, 
on  sighting  you,  would  crumple  their  leaves  and  wait, 
closed  up,  till  you  had  passed.  Then  they  would  open 
out  again — one  of  the  most  extraordinary  phenomena 
I  have  ever  witnessed. 

The  captains  of  the  P.  &  O.  boats  had  the  privilege 
of  filling  up  the  odd  corners  of  the  holds,  which  the 
stevedores  could  not  pack,  with  coconuts,  which 
they  sold  to  great  advantage  in  Sydney.  The 
famous  shipping  firm,  I  believe,  is  not  so  generous 
with  its  skippers  in  our  days.  Our  steamer  carried 
two  little  brass  cannon  which,  on  reaching  Sydney 
Heads,  were  fired  by  means  of  a  red-hot  poker  to 
announce  to  the  citizens  that  their  long-looked-for 
mail  from  the  Old  Country  had  arrived. 

The  whole  world  to-day  is  acquainted  with  Sydney 
harbor,  its  vastness  and  beauty.  But  to  me  the  city 
was  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  universe.  I  have 
visited  Australia  five  times  and  have  watched  her 
growth.    Here,  twelve  thousand  miles  "down  under," 

178 


DOWN  UNDER 

is  a  city  which  for  beautiful  architecture  and  up  to 
date  sanitary  conditions  may  hold  her  own  with 
any  metropolis  in  the  northern  hemisphere. 

In  1880  her  first  International  Exhibition  had 
gathered  the  best  from  all  quarters  of  the  world. 
The  flags  of  all  nationalities  fluttered  in  her  harbor. 
But  above  all,  I  shall  never  forget  the  hospitality 
of  her  inhabitants.  It  was  a  month  of  picnics, 
dances,  races — for  all  her  clubs  and  houses  were 
open  to  visitors  from  Europe. 

It  now  seems  incredible,  but  before  the  gallant 
contingents  of  Australian  troops  rallied  round  the 
old  flag  and  showed  their  bonny  faces  and  stalwart 
figures  to  all  Europe  during  the  recent  Great  War, 
many  people  have  asked  me  whether  they  were 
mostly  blacks  in  Australia,  and  one  intelligent  man, 
well-informed  on  most  ordinary  matters,  addressed 
a  letter  to  me,  care  the  Sydney  Exhibition,  New 
Zealand!  To  reach  the  latter  country  in  that  year 
from  New  South  Wales  took  almost  as  long  as  from 
Liverpool  to  New  York. 

It  was  a  brilliant,  gay,  happy  time  for  me — that 
visit  "down  under."  It  was  also  an  indescribable 
relief  to  one's  nervous  system  after  many  years  of 
incessant  campaigning.  But  where'er  I  go  I  seem 
to  be  a  stormy  petrel,  for  there  was  a  threatened 
rising  of  the  Maoris  in  New  Zealand  under  De 
Wit  while  I  was  in  Sydney,  and  one  day  I  found 
myself  bound  for  Auckland,  to  arrive  in  Welling- 
ton, the  capital  of  the  islands,  just  as  an  expedi- 

179 


VILLI ERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

tion  was  being  organized  to  suppress  the  impending 
rebellion. 

The  genial  governor,  Sir  Hercules  Robinson  (the 
late  Lord  Rosemead),  asked  me  to  stay  with  him 
at  Government  House.  One  night  at  dinner  he 
said,  "I  have  some  bad  news  for  you,  Villiers!" 

"What's  that,  sir?"  I  asked. 

"I  have  settled  the  Maori  dispute;  there  will  be 
no  fighting,  but  if  you  want  to  see  a  scrap  take 
Lady  Robinson  to  the  dog  show  to-morrow." 

Before  leaving  New  Zealand  I  visited  the  famous 
pink  and  white  terraces,  a  wonderful  silica  deposit 
of  beautiful  tones  of  color  with  basins  of  water  of 
azure  blue.  This  formation  is  found  only  in  the 
King  Country,  reserved  for  the  Maoris.  While 
there  I  interviewed  one  of  the  chiefs.  As  he  con- 
veyed me  up  to  the  front  terrace  I  said  to  him, 
"How  do  you  like  the  English?" 

"Oh,"  he  replied,  "we  get  along  very  well  with 
them  now,  but  at  first  we  didn't  like  them  a  bit. 
You  see  the  trouble  was  this:  they  first  of  all  sent 
their  missionaries,  and  they  told  us  to  look  up  to 
God.  Then,  while  we  were  looking  up  to  heaven, 
the  English  took  our  lands  from  us.  Then  we  killed 
them,  and  we  were  so  much  annoyed  that  some  of  us 
ate  them.  Then  you  sent  your  redcoats  to  punish 
us,  and  though  we  fought  well  you  eventually 
crushed  us,  and  now  here  we  are."  Which  was  a 
concise  history  of  the  situation! 

Some  of  the  Maori  women  were  quite  handsome 
180 


DOWN  UNDER 

in  spite  of  the  custom  of  tattooing  their  lips  blue. 
There  was  a  little  village  called  Ohenimutu  in  which 
I  stayed  for  a  few  days,  by  the  side  of  a  lake.  It  was 
built  over  hot  springs  which  bubbled  up  under  the 
huts  and  kept  the  people  warm.  The  women,  there- 
fore, wore  very  little  clothing  and  went  about  in  a 
very  primitive  state,  and  their  figures  were  good 
to  look  upon.  I  used  to  fish  in  the  lake  while  they 
boiled  potatoes  in  a  net  slung  in  a  hot  bubble  near 
by.  When  I  caught  anything  I  flicked  my  line 
toward  them;  they  would  seize  the  wriggling  pis- 
catory morsel  and  drop  it  into  the  spring  with  the 
potatoes,  and  there  was  no  question  of  the  freshness 
of  the  fish  when  dinner  time  arrived. 

Alas!  One  day  there  was  a  great  seismic  upheaval 
and  the  pretty  little  village  and  many  of  its  charming 
inhabitants  were  sucked  into  the  lake,  for  the  beau- 
tiful pink  and  white  terraces  were  blown  sky-high. 
The  catastrophe  involved  all  the  territory  in  their 
vicinity,  and  for  years  this  once  paradisaical  district 
became,  with  its  mud  cones  and  spouting  geysers 
and  sulphurous  atmosphere,  a  veritable  inferno. 

I  was  loath  to  leave  the  smiling  Antipodes,  with 
all  its  allurements  of  hospitality,  climate,  and  beauty 
of  scenery,  but  I  was  due  in  England.  So  I  returned 
to  Sydney,  and  thence  across  the  Pacific  home  by 
Hawaii  and  the  United  States.  I  am  certain  that 
no  traveler  can  finish  his  cosmopolitan  education 
without  visiting  the  great  commonwealth  "down 
under." 

181 


FILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

Hawaii  is  certainly  the  pearl  of  the  Pacific,  and 
it  is  probably  here  that  that  ocean  best  lives  up  to 
its  peaceful  cognomen,  for  storms  seem  to  call  a 
halt  on  approaching  this  lovely  island.  When  I 
arrived  at  Honolulu  on  my  return  home  from  Aus- 
tralia, there  was  a  king  on  the  throne,  and  under 
his  rule  all  was  happy  and  Arcadian.  This  was  in  the 
year  1880.  But  as  they  always  do,  the  missionaries 
and  other  whites  eventually  stirred  up  trouble  and 
the  inevitable  came — annexation  by  the  United 
States. 

King  Kalakaua  was  an  amiable  monarch  and  sel- 
dom missed  coming  down  to  the  hard  to  see  the  pas- 
sengers arrive  by  the  mail  steamers.  He  would 
turn  out  the  palace  band,  which  played  sweet  music 
as  the  voyagers  sipped  their  lemonade  or  cocktails 
in  the  lounge  chairs  and  hammocks  on  the  shady 
veranda  of  the  quaint  wooden  hotel  on  the  beach. 

The  natives  treated  the  guests  with  great  courtesy. 
In  the  early  days,  long  before  the  advent  of  Captain 
Cook,  they  were  a  magnificent,  muscular,  copper- 
colored  race.  Most  of  them  were  as  naked  as  God 
had  made  them  and  were  not  ashamed.  Their 
morals  were  no  worse  than  those  of  the  chosen  people 
of  the  Old  Testament.  Now  in  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury how  things  have  changed!  The  denizens  of 
Hawaii  are  dressed  in  unbecoming  European  attire, 
have  straight  streets,  and  soda  fountains  and  chewing 
gum. 

The  last  time  I  touched  Honolulu  there  was  no 
182 


DOWN  UNDER 

band  of  music  to  receive  the  passengers  with  a  win- 
some waltz,  but  a  band  of  a  different  sort.  A  revo- 
lution had  occurred  and  the  white  insurgents  came 
on  board  to  search  for  arms.  In  those  days  there 
was  no  cable  connecting  with  America  and  the 
steamer  on  which  I  traveled  was  suspected  of  being 
a  filibustering  ship. 

On  landing  I  found  the  queen  a  prisoner.  Hawaii 
was  about  to  go  through  the  mill,  an  ordeal  all  small 
and  delightful  primitive  states  have  to  pass  through 
as  grist  to  the  millstone  of  modern  civilization; 
but  though  they  come  out  flat  and  stale,  from  a 
picturesque  point  of  view,  they  very  often  become 
more  profitable  to  outsiders  as  a  result  of  their 
absorption  by  a  bigger  power. 

I  approached  the  United  States  from  the  Pacific, 
as  the  great  Drake  did  when  he  christened  the 
country  "New  Albion,"  and  I  can  just  imagine  how 
that  respectable  buccaneer  beat  his  big  tom-tom  in 
delight  at  the  sight  of  the  Golden  Gate  when  he 
was  trying  to  find  a  passage  into  the  Atlantic. 


Chapter  X 

GOTHAM 

New  York  in  the  '8o's — /  meet  an  old  friend  of  Plevna  days,  and  many 
eminent  people — General  Sherman,  Thomas  Nast,  Clavering  Gunter, 
Sir  H.  M.  Stanley,  Max  O'Rell,  General  Horace  Porter,  Joseph  Jeffer- 
son, Bill  Nye,  Mrs.  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox,  Richard  Mansfield,  and 
Edwin  Booth — A  night  with  Edison  in  his  laboratory  at  Menlo  Park — 
— His  first  filament — /  sketch  the  inventor  at  work — /  lecture  at  West 
Point. 

T  FELL  in  love  with  San  Francisco  at  once;  I  found 
*  it  so  full  of  light  and  shade.  The  things  that 
struck  me  most  were  the  whole-hearted  hospitality  of 
its  citizens,  its  vast,  palatial  hotel — the  largest  in  the 
world  at  that  period,  and  rightly  called  the  Palace — 
its  sea  lions,  and  the  most  unique  club  in  the  uni- 
verse, the  Bohemian,  with  its  bright  and  witty 
members  who  periodically  gave  evidence  of  their 
sparkling  geniality  in  "High  Jinks"  in  their  quaint 
little  theater.  The  club  is  still  going  strong  and  is 
now  located  in  far  more  ornate  premises;  but,  alas! 
the  Bohemian  spirit  seems  much  diluted.  The  ghost 
of  prohibition  stalks  through  its  palatial  halls,  and 
like  most  clubs  of  a  kindred  nature,  the  high  jinks 

184 


GOTHAM 

of  its   members   can't   possibly   mount   far  without 
an  occasional  highball. 

My  first  visit  to  New  York  was  in  the  time  when 
the  Brevoort  House  and  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel 
were  the  fashionable  places  at  which  to  stay.  I  de- 
cided to  stop  at  the  latter,  so  I  checked  my  heavy 
baggage,  and  with  my  grips  stepped  into  a  heavy, 
cumbersome  hackney  coach  which  was  lazily  crawl- 
ing with  me  and  my  kit  over  the  then  atrociously 
paved  streets  to  the  hotel,  when  I  chanced  to  see 
and  old  campaigning  friend,  J.  P.  Jackson  of  the 
New  York  Herald,  crossing  Broadway.  I  was  so 
delighted  to  find  a  friend  in  a  city  where  I  knew 
absolutely  no  one  that  I  opened  the  door  of  the 
carriage,  slipping  out  while  it  was  still  in  motion, 
and  rushed  at  him.  The  last  time  I  had  seen  Jack- 
son was  before  Plevna  with  the  Russian  army. 
Whenever  he  had  a  day  off*  from  war  duties  he  went 
on  with  his  writing  of  the  libretto  to  Wagner's 
"Flying  Dutchman"  for  the  Carl  Rosa  Company, 
living  in  a  Bulgarian  hovel  and  working  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  the  blast  of  the  siege  guns.  He 
told  me  that  the  growling  rumble  of  the  cannon  in- 
spired him  in  his  work. 

The  happy  greeting  over,  I  remembered  the  cab. 
It  had,  of  course,  continued  its  lazy  way  to  its  des- 
tination, and  when  we  arrived  at  the  hotel  we  found 
the  coachman,  a  genial  Irishman,  in  a  terrible  state 
of  anxiety  regarding  my  safety,  and  especially  his 
fare.     He  had  discovered  that  I  had  vanished  and 

185 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

was  now  explaining  his  dilemma  to  a  couple  of  police- 
men, thinking  that  I  had  been  spirited  away  by 
one  of  the  many  "bunco-steerers." 

New  York  was  in  those  days  the  most  depressing 
city  on  earth.  Overhead  was  a  labyrinth  of  telegraph 
wires,  and  the  streets  were  a  sea  of  masts.  In  front 
of  every  house  or  store  were  boxes  or  barrels  placed 
on  the  curb  where  all  refuse  was  thrown.  When  the 
wind  was  high  the  dust  and  cinders  from  the  over- 
laden barrels  were  whirled  into  the  air,  while  the 
litter  of  paper  and  rags  clinging  to  the  overhead 
wires  made  the  streets  the  most  dismal  and  slovenly 
thoroughfares  I  have  ever  traversed.  On  passing 
through  the  remarkable  avenues  of  the  clean  and 
stately  city  of  to-day  one  can  hardly  realize  the  con- 
dition under  which  its  inhabitants  lived  forty  years 
ago. 

I  used  to  frequent  the  Brunswick  restaurant  which 
stood  opposite  the  famous  Delmonico's.  It  has  now 
been  pulled  down,  but  it  was  an  excellent  hostelry, 
quite  as  good  in  its  way  as  the  more  fashionable 
one  across  the  street,  but  never  so  well  patronized. 
I  used  to  watch  the  overflowing  crowds  of  New 
York's  fashionable  "four  hundred"  waiting  in  the 
doorway,  and,  in  fact,  on  the  pavement,  for  vacant 
seats  at  the  smart  restaurant,  and  wondered  why 
some  of  them  didn't  cross  the  road  and  enjoy  a 
luncheon  quite  as  good  as  Delmonico's  in  peace  and 
quietude,  instead  of  attempting  to  eat  in  the  noise 
and  bustle  of  an  overcrowded  room.     It  is  curious 

186 


GOTHAM 

what  New  Yorkers  will  pay  and  suffer  to  be  con- 
sidered in  the  fashion. 

It  was  in  the  saloon  of  the  Brunswick  that  I  heard 
my  first  Yankee  horse  story.  I  hope  it  is  not  a  horse 
chestnut.  A  man  was  talking  to  one  or  two  inter- 
ested loafers  about  a  fast  mare  he  possessed,  and 
his  listeners  were  rather  skeptical.  Said  he:  "Guess 
I  never  came  across  sich  a  fast  animal.  Why,  she 
would  walk  faster  than  some  horses  run.  Her  pace 
was  just  terrific,  and  nothing  could  stop  it.  She  was 
fairly  wearing  herself  out,  and  I  was  getting  kinder 
rattled  about  it,  when  a  vet  friend  put  me  up  to  a 
trick  which  was  real  good.  He  told  me  to  tie  a  rag 
round  her  near  foreleg." 

"How's  that?"  inquired  the  astonished  listeners. 

"Wal,  that  mare  was  a  cute  cuss.  When  she 
spotted  the  bandage  wound  round  her  leg  she  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  she  must  have  kinder  strained 
herself  and  shut  down  to  ordinary  speed  at  once." 

At  this  period  Edison  was  experimenting  with 
his  incandescent  lamp,  and  my  friend  Jackson  in- 
troduced me  to  the  great  inventor.  I  found  him  at 
a  place  called  Menlo  Park,  an  out-of-the-way  suburb 
in  New  Jersey.  It  was  dusk  when  I  arrived  and  I 
shall  never  forget  my  wonder  on  first  coming  across 
the  incandescent  electric  lamp,  now  the  common 
light  in  most  parts  of  the  world.  On  approaching 
Edison's  little  estate  I  found  the  grounds  in  front 
of  the  house  festooned  with  glass  bulbs,  which  were 
not  always  glowing,  but  instead  turned  sometimes 

187 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

a  deep  yellow  or  red  and  then  provokingly  faded 
away  altogether. 

Mr.  Edison  greeted  me  in  a  genial  manner,  but 
I  could  see  he  was  much  worried,  so  I  let  him  alone 
and  put  my  questions  to  some  of  his  subordinates. 
I  was  told  by  one  of  them  that  the  inventor  had  not 
been  to  bed  for  many  nights,  but  had  dozed  in  his 
clothes  on  a  couch  in  the  laboratory  to  be  always 
on  the  alert  when  these  little  lamps,  which  were 
also  strung  across  the  workshops,  showed  any  signs 
of  a  change  in  the  quality  of  their  light. 

Edison  looked  puffy  and  unkempt,  like  a  man  who 
had  been  watching  beside  a  sick  bed.  He  sat  in 
deep  thought,  his  strong,  heavy  face  sunk  on  to 
his  shoulders.  Now  and  again  he  would  give  a  sigh 
of  annoyance  when  a  globe  suddenly  lost  its  glow 
and  changed  color.  I  understood  that  it  was  a  ques- 
tion of  the  carbon  filament  or  the  uncertainty  of  the 
vacuum  within  the  bulb  that  puzzled  the  inventor. 
I  still  possess  a  horseshoe-shaped  filament  used  in 
the  first  globes,  with  which  Edison  presented  me  on 
that  memorable  evening.  During  my  visit  I  was 
able  to  make  a  drawing  of  the  inventor  in  Rembrandt 
effect,  the  light  of  his  creation  illuminating  one  side 
of  his  powerful  face,  and  the  rest  in  deep  shadow. 
This  was  published  in  the  Graphic  and  was  afterward 
bought  for  the  Adelaide  Art  gallery  in  South 
Australia. 

Before  I  returned  to  England  Edison  had  solved 
the  difficulty   and  found   a  better  medium  for  the 

188 


GOTHAM 

light,  which  was  then  almost  as  permanent  as  it  is 
to-day. 

When  I  visited  New  York  again  a  decade  later, 
the  streets  were  not  much  improved,  but  club  life 
had  developed  and  I  enjoyed  the  hospitality  of  the 
Lotos,  the  Union  League,  Players,  and  many  others, 
whose  portals  were  always  open  to  Englishmen 
visiting  the  city.  During  all  my  after  visits  I  in- 
variably stopped  at  the  clubs  instead  of  the  hotels. 
The  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  was  now  almost  eclipsed 
by  more  palatial  hostelries,  but  still  it  was  well 
patronized.  Mrs.  Kendal,  who  was  acting  in  New 
York,  was  staying  there,  and  also  another  actress, 
Mrs.  Langtry.  There  was  evidently  a  coolness  be- 
tween the  rival  ladies,  which  the  vigilant  New  York 
press  reporter  soon  discovered,  for  one  morning  the 
Herald  came  out  with  the  following  interesting  news 
in  high  captions  across  the  front  of  the  page: 

I  MRS.  KENDAL 

IS 

AT  OUTS 

WITH 

MRS.  LANGTRY 

AND 

PASSES  HER  ON  THE  STAIR 

I  was  staying  at  the  Players'  in  Gramercy  Park, 
the  famous  house  built  by  Booth  the  actor,  who  had 

189 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

a  suite  of  apartments  on  the  upper  story.  I  always 
managed  to  return  to  dine  about  the  hour  when  the 
grand  old  man  came  into  the  room,  and  to  have  a 
few  words  with  him.  He  was  the  stately  type  of 
actor  who  was  never  "off  the  stage."  To  see  him 
descend  the  stairs  to  the  dining  room  took  one  back 
to  the  theater  at  once.  There  was  the  grand  air  of 
a  Richelieu  or  the  mien  of  a  Wolsey  in  his  measured 
steps. 

Between  the  smoking  and  dining  rooms  was  a  nar- 
row passage,  in  whose  walls  were  deep-windowed 
recesses,  behind  which  was  a  collection  of  the  actor's 
more  special  stage  properties.  Booth  would  oc- 
casionally come  to  a  halt  before  this  little  museum, 
and  it  was  rather  pathetic  to  see  him  wistfully  gaze 
on  crown  and  scepter  which  he  would  never  wear 
or  wield  again. 

The  Players'  was  not  exclusively  an  actors'  club. 
Most  of  its  members  were  authors,  journalists,  and 
artists — without  the  letter  "e."  I  met  here  Charles 
Dana  Gibson,  who  used  frequently  to  dine  opposite 
me.  He  was  a  young  man  with  a  clean-shaven  face 
and  athletic  figure,  and  was  already  famous  for  his 
remarkable  pen-and-ink  work.  He  had  never  crossed 
the  Atlantic.  I  urged  him  to  do  so,  pointing  out  the 
enormous  field  for  his  type  of  art  that  lay  waiting 
for  his  magic  touch.  It  was  years  after  that  he  came 
to  Europe.  His  fame  had,  however,  preceded  rum, 
and  he  was  then  as  well  known  in  England  as  in  his 
own  country.    There  is  no  other  man  in  the  annals 

190 


GOTHAM 

of  art  who  has  so  captivated  the  world  by  the  crea- 
tion of  a  special  type  of  beauty  and  has  set  the 
fashion  for  all  civilized  womanhood  throughout  the 
globe.  Indeed,  I  have  seen  black,  yellow,  and  red, 
as  well  as  white,  women  affect  the  fashion  of  head- 
gear that  Gibson  created  in  his  ravishing  pen-and- 
ink  studies. 

One  of  the  most  popular  men  in  New  York  at  the 
time  of  my  second  visit  was  the  late  Mr.  Alexander 
Guild.  Of  all  the  many  good  fellows  I  have  met 
in  my  journeys  round  the  world,  Guild  stands  alone 
for  the  most  perfectly  unselfish  hospitality.  If  he 
invited  you  to  dinner  it  was  his  evident  pleasure  to 
watch  the  effect  of  some  choice  dish  on  his  favored 
guest,  especially  if  the  invited  one  was  a  newcomer 
to  America.  He  would  give  a  smile  of  supreme  satis- 
faction when  you  had  done  full  justice  to  the  choicest 
of  America's  fare,  terrapin,  canvasback  duck,  or 
little-neck  clams. 

When  a  consignment  of  pheasants — a  rare  bird  in 
those  days  in  New  York — came  from  his  son-in- 
law's  shooting  in  the  old  country,  a  curt  message 
would  be  sent  round  by  him  to  his  dearest  friends 
to  dine  at  the  Lambs'  next  Sunday,  and  a  half- 
dozen  good  fellows  would  also  enjoy  his  good  luck. 
A  Sunday  evening  at  the  Lambs',  especially  on  a 
"roasting"  night,  was  full  of  fun.  All  guests  were 
unmercifully  abused  and  "roasted"  if  they  at- 
tempted to  respond  to  any  toast  or  make  a  speech, 
and   those  who  were   not   accustomed   to  the   leg- 

vol.  i.— 13  X9X 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

pulling  would  sometimes  lose  their  temper,  which, 
of  course,  added  to  the  hilarity  of  the  members. 
The  night  Guild  invited  me  to  enjoy  one  of  his 
pheasant  feasts,  Wilson  Barrett  was  the  guest  of 
some  other  Lambs,  and  after  dinner,  not  knowing 
the  custom  of  the  club,  he  had  the  temerity  to  get  up, 
in  all  seriousness,  and  propose  a  scheme  for  a  na- 
tional theater.  His  suggestion  was  continually  in- 
terrupted and  was  finally  attacked  in  the  most 
offensive  and  brutal  manner  by  several  clever  speak- 
ers. Barrett  turned  red,  then  quite  white,  as  he 
smarted  under  the  scourge  of  their  spiteful  tongues. 
Then  all  at  once  he  saw  through  the  joke  and  rose 
to  the  occasion,  returning  the  chafF  in  the  same 
acrid  fashion. 

I  was  also  at  the  Lambs'  when  Willard,  another 
popular  actor,  was  the  guest  and,  to  the  astonishment 
of  the  members,  he  at  once  commenced  to  attack 
them.  He  said  he  could  not  refrain  from  informing 
them  that  it  was  a  great  condescension  on  his  part 
to  accept  their  invitation  that  night,  for  he  was  not 
usually  accustomed  to  associate  with  such  a  lot  of 
artistic  and  literary  refuse  assembled  to  eat  one  of 
the  worst  dinners  he  had  ever  had  the  misfortune  to 
partake. 

A  murmur  of  gratifying  surprise  buzzed  round  the 
room,  and  as  the  English  actor's  abuse  became  even 
more  venomous  the  members  arose  with  a  great  cheer 
in  their  delight  at  the  "roasting"  they  had  received 
from  the  man  whom  they  had  intended  to  roast. 

192 


GOTHAM 

Guild  took  me  to  see  Mr.  Joseph  Jefferson,  who 
was  then  living  with  his  pretty  young  wife  and  hand- 
some little  son  in  a  pleasant  flat  near  Madison 
Square.  He  had  just  returned  from  a  long  tour  with 
his  masterpiece,  "Rip  Van  Winkle,"  and  was  now 
taking  a  holiday  which  he  devoted  chiefly  to  painting 
pictures  from  the  many  sketches  he  had  made  during 
his  tour.  He  was  an  excellent  painter  and  had  a 
direct  and  vigorous  touch  with  the  brush.  He  told 
me  that  he  had  made  his  representation  of  "Rip" 
a  study  of  years  before  he  was  satisfied  with  his  per- 
formance and  felt  equal  to  presenting  it  to  the  pub- 
lic. But  so  wonderfully  perfect  was  this  gem  of 
histrionic  art  that  it  delighted  the  playgoers  of 
England  and  America  again  and  again  for  nearly 
half  a  century,  and  there  was  a  vast  American 
audience  ever  ready  to  support  him  whenever  he 
appeared  in  that  character. 

My  friend  Guild  had  a  distant  relative  who  had 
a  charming  estate  outside  Jersey  City  where  we  used 
to  forgather  for  week-ends.  Our  host  had  been  a 
galloper  to  General  Grant  during  the  war  and  was  a 
smart,  dapper  little  cavalry  officer  who,  like  many 
of  his  compatriots,  had  gravitated  after  the  fighting 
into  business.  He  had  never  been  to  England,  and, 
like  most  untraveled  Americans,  thought  us,  as  a 
nation,  "no  great  shakes."  He  was  fond  of  hunting, 
and  asked  me  if  we  went  in  for  it  to  any  extent  in 
that  played-out  little  islet  over  which  Queen  Vic. 
reigned. 

193 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

"Oh  yes!"  I  replied.  "  We  do  hunt,  in  a  way,  in 
England." 

"Ah!"  he  replied;  "I  guess  you  want  a  few  of  us 
boys  to  put  you  through  with  hunting.  I  have  a 
good  mind  to  take  my  horses  across  the  ferry  and 
show  you  Britishers  what  we  can  do." 

"Do,"  said  I.  "You  may  also  pick  up  a  wrinkle 
or  two  in  horseflesh  from  us." 

The  next  time  I  visited  New  York  Guild  and  I 
went  over  to  this  man's  house  to  spend  a  few  days. 
My  friend  told  me  that  our  host  had  been  to  England, 
as  he  had  promised,  and  I  was  therefore  prepared 
for  a  change  of  front;  but  certainly  not  for  one  quite 
so  remarkable.  I  noticed  that  the  roads  leading  up 
to  the  house,  which  were  mere  tantalizing  quagmires 
and  ruts  on  my  previous  visit,  were  all  now  beauti- 
fully macadamized. 

We  had  come  to  breakfast,  and  as  we  entered  the 
room,  our  host  smilingly  advanced  to  meet  us  in  an 
Oxford  blazer  of  very  pronounced  hues.  The  first 
words  he  said  to  me  were:  "Guess  I  have  to  make 
some  apology  to  you  regarding  my  previous  remarks 
about  your  lovely  country.  I  almost  blush  to  think 
that  I  made  such  a  cussed  fool  of  myself.  Why,  sir, 
it's  about  the  only  place  worth  living  in.  Gosh! 
And  I  was  going  to  teach  you  fellows  how  to  ride. 
Well,  there,  shake,  and  let's  have  a  cocktail  to  kinder 
hide  my  confusion.  My  golly!" — and  he  heaved  a 
deep  sigh — "those  elegant  bartenders  in  the  railway 
restaurants!" 

194 


GOTHAM 

"You  mean  the  barmaids?"  I  laughed. 

"Yes;  the  gals  in  black,  with  snowy-white  collars 
and  cuffs.  They  are  perfect  peaches.  How  charm- 
ingly they  serve  you  with  a  drink — those  ghastly 
drinks  with  no  ice.  Guess  those  gals  are  the  novel- 
est  things  about  your  country.  As  you  know,  we 
have  only  men  behind  the  bars  in  the  States.  /  miss 
those  gals." 

Our  host,  to  show  his  appreciation  of  his  English 
visit,  as  well  as  impress  me,  got  into  a  smart  scarlet 
hunting  coat  and  white  kid  breeches  and  rode  out 
alone  for  an  hour  to  an  imaginary  pack  of  hounds, 
then  he  changed  to  knickers  to  take  a  walk  with  me 
before  luncheon. 

"See!"  he  said,  as  we  passed  over  the  new  roads. 
"Got  this  notion  from  across  the  pond,  but  was 
obliged  to  tell  my  road  makers,  who  are  all  Irish,  that 
the  system  comes  from  Germany.  Bless  you,  other- 
wise I  should  have  no  macadam!" 

When  we  returned  to  the  house  he  got  into  a 
morning  suit,  but  changed  later  on  to  the  orthodox 
frock  coat  for  his  wife's  afternoon  tea;  then  he 
shifted  into  a  velvet  lounge  jacket  before  dinner; 
then  he  dressed,  and  eventually  he  wound  up 
the  evening  in  a  sumptuous  quilted-silk  smoking 
jacket. 

"Ah!"  he  sighed,  as  he  threw  himself  into  an  easy 
chair.  "You  know  how  to  exist  in  your  beautiful 
country.  Fancy  thinking  the  people  were  a  monoto- 
nous, played-out,  stick-in-the-mud  set.     Why,  it  just 

195 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

makes  one  smile;  it's  a  huge  libel.     They  are  always 
changing." 

At  a  dinner  to  Henry  M.  Stanley,  at  Delmonico's, 
after  his  return  from  his  last  expedition  to  Central 
Africa,  I  became  acquainted  with  two  well-known 
American  personalities,  Gen.  Tecumseh  Sherman, 
and  Mr.  Chauncey  M.  Depew.  I  sat  next  to  the 
latter,  a  tall,  fresh-colored,  fine-figured  man.  He 
was  clean  shaven  but  for  a  pair  of  mutton-chop 
whiskers  which,  being  nearly  white,  heightened  the 
ruddy,  healthy  tone  of  his  complexion.  His  features 
were  sharp  and  clean-cut  and  his  deep-seated,  dark- 
blue  eyes  had  a  peculiar  fire  in  them  whenever  he 
said  a  good  thing — and  he  said  many  good  things 
that  night. 

I  watched  him  with  considerable  interest,  for  he 
was  supposed  to  be  one  of  America's  greatest  ora- 
tors. But  he  did  not  appeal  to  me  as  much  as  Gen. 
Horace  Porter,  though  both  had  that  peculiar  and 
entertaining  trick  of  introducing  incidents  quite  ir- 
relevant to  the  subject  of  their  discourse,  which 
characterizes  nearly  all  American  oratory.  For  in- 
stance, this  is  a  sample  from  a  speech  delivered  by 
Horace  Porter  to  the  members  of  the  Lotos  Club 
who  entertained  him  at  dinner  before  he  left  New 
York  for  France,  where  he  had  just  been  appointed 
ambassador: 

"You  will  probably  have  observed  that  I  have  a 
cold  in  my  throat.     But  it  is  not  a  'campaign  cold.' 

196 


GOTHAM 

It  is  like  one  that  a  man  had  whom  I  met  in  Arkansas; 
he  had  a  sore  throat,  and  when  his  wife  asked  how  he 
got  it,  he  said  it  was  due  to  a  sudden  change.  He  had 
been  eating  flannel  cakes  and  had  suddenly  changed 
to  buckwheat. 

"Probably  the  easiest  thing  for  me  to  have  given 
you  tonight  was  one  of  my  campaign  speeches,  a 
little  altered  so  as  to  bring  it  up  to  date.  That 
would  have  reminded  you  of  the  Scotsman  who  was 
riding  on  the  railway  from  Perth  to  Inverness  and 
was  chewing  his  ticket  in  his  mouth.  A  friend 
traveling  with  him  said,  'You  are  very  extravagant 
to  be  chewing  up  a  ticket  that  costs  twelve  shil- 
lings and  sixpence.'  'Nay,  mon,'  he  replied,  'it  is  a 
limited  ticket,  and  I  am  only  sucking  ofF  the  date.'" 

General  Sherman  was  exceedingly  tall  and  slight, 
and  though  accredited  with  a  character  of  consider- 
able sternness,  there  was  nothing  in  his  face  to  show 
it.  It  was  wreathed  in  smiles  all  through  dinner  till 
the  band  struck  up,  "Marching  Through  Georgia," 
probably  the  most  popular  and  hackneyed,  but  most 
inspiring  tune  the  world  has  ever  known — even  the 
Japanese  have  now  adopted  it  for  their  most  popular 
march.  Then  the  smile  left  his  face,  and  when  the 
guests  stood  up  and  cheered  he  frowned.  I  suppose 
he  was  thinking  of  the  ragged  band  of  heroes  who 
reached  the  sea  after  that  weary  march,  and  how 
sweet  sounded  the  music  of  the  ocean's  roar. 

When  he  rose  to  respond  to  the  toast  for  the  army, 
he  laughingly  referred  to  the  newspaper  reporters  with 

197 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

his  troops  in  Georgia,  for  the  room  was  full  of  the 
fraternity  taking  notes.  "They  were  a  great  trouble 
to  me  on  the  march,  and  I  had  much  difficulty  in 
keeping  my  plans  from  prematurely  appearing  in 
the  papers.  I  am  afraid  I  must  have  seemed  a  bit 
bearish  to  the  'intrepid  correspondents,'  and  I  re- 
member that  I  threatened  to  have  at  least  one  of 
those  zealous  gentlemen  shot.  But,"  continued  the 
general,  still  with  a  sweet  smile  on  his  face,  "if  I 
were  campaigning  with  war  correspondents  of  the 
present  day  I  would  have  them  all  hanged." 

In  spite  of  this  cruel  threat,  I  had  a  most  inter- 
esting chat  with  the  veteran  warrior,  who  knew  and 
loved  my  dear  friend  Forbes,  of  whom  he  spoke  in 
most  eulogistic  terms.  I  was  able  to  tell  him,  what 
seemed  to  please  him  mightily,  that  during  the 
Russo-Turkish  war  the  great  Russian  General  Sko- 
beleff  told  me  that  the  finest  feat  of  arms  of  which 
he  knew  was  Sherman's  march  to  the  sea. 

I  was  glad  to  have  met  the  general  and  to  have 
had  this  chat,  for  within  the  month  he  was  dead. 
His  funeral  was  one  of  the  most  impressive  functions 
at  which  I  have  been  present.  From  all  parts  of  the 
States  comrades  in  arms  donned  their  old  uniforms 
and  became  soldiers  once  more  to  swell  the  ranks  of 
the  vast  array  of  mourners  that  followed  the  great 
American  soldier  to  his  last  bivouac. 

I  stumbled  across  Richard  Mansfield  one  after- 
noon and  he  casually  asked  me  if  I  was  doing  any- 

198 


GOTHAM 

thing  particular  that  evening.  Finding  that  I  was 
not,  he  invited  me  to  dine  at  Delmonico's.  I  found, 
on  arriving,  that  it  was  a  dinner  given  to  about 
twenty  editors  and  litterateurs  of  New  York;  and 
Horace  Porter  was  one  of  the  guests. 

It  was  a  lavish  and  extravagant  dinner,  one  of 
Delmonico's  supreme  efforts.  Mansfield  called  it 
the  "Wake  of  Richard."  He  had  been  playing 
"Richard  III"  to  such  indifferent  houses  in  New 
York  that  he  was  compelled  to  close  the  theater  and 
withdraw  the  play,  and  this  dinner  was  to  celebrate 
its  death.  The  banquet  was  served  in  the  old  Eng- 
lish style.  The  cooks,  in  pompous  and  solemn  pro- 
cession, brought  in  the  meats,  each  guest  in  turn 
standing  up  and  notifying  his  approval  as  the  joints 
were  taken  to  the  carving  board.  Every  guest  had 
the  menu  framed  in  huge  wreaths  of  white  or  red 
roses,  symbolical  of  the  houses  of  York  and  Lancas- 
ter, to  place  upon  the  bier  of  the  dead  play.  Never- 
theless, it  was  not  by  any  means  a  somber  feast,  for 
what  with  the  eccentric  utterances  of  Horace  Porter, 
the  wit  of  Max  O'Rell,  and  the  best  of  Delmonico's 
cellar,  we  were  gay  with  laughter.  This  magnificent 
feast,  by  which  the  plucky  actor-manager  brought 
his  disastrous  season  to  a  close,  was  wired  all  over 
America,  and  he  opened  in  Chicago  to  a  splendid 
house,  and  fortune  now  smiled  on  him  everywhere. 
.This  incident  demonstrated  to  me  the  power  of  ad- 
vertisement in  the  United  States  and  the  admiration 
of  its  citizens  for  resourcefulness  and  pluck, 

199 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

While  I  was  in  New  York  I  became  acquainted 
with  America's  greatest  caricaturist,  Thomas  Nast. 
His  remarkable  war  pictures  in  Harper  s  Weekly  so 
stirred  the  patriotic  feeling  in  the  North  during  the 
Civil  War  that  thousands  of  youths,  aroused  to 
enthusiasm  by  these  drawings,  were  induced  to  join 
the  colors,  and  possibly  no  one  in  those  days  did 
more  in  suppressing  the  rebellion  with  pen,  tongue, 
or  sword  than  did  Nast  with  his  pencil.  His  political 
cartoons  influenced  public  opinion  to  so  great  an 
extent  that  with  a  few  strokes  of  his  pencil  he  could 
make  or  mar  the  career  of  a  man. 

I  met  the  humorist,  Bill  Nye,  and  many  others 
at  Pond's  office  in  the  Everett  House.  Nye  was  a 
very  lanky  man,  with  a  hairless,  rather  ascetic  face, 
bald  head,  and  a  very  solemn  demeanor.  He  had  a 
remarkable  following,  and  mostly  talked  to  crowded 
houses.  His  humor  was  slow,  but  sure.  Sometimes 
one  would  have  to  wait  for  it.  I  remember  one  night 
he  kept  us  fully  five  minutes  before  the  laugh  came. 
He  was  wading,  with  a  dull,  monotonous  voice, 
through  a  rigmarole  of  a  story  about  a  young  man 
whose  father  was  supposed  to  have  been  lost  at 
sea.  One  day  he  meets  a  man  near  his  homestead, 
who  turns  out  to  be  his  long-lost  father.  The  lad 
listens  to  the  man's  story  of  adventure  and  ship- 
wreck. And  the  audience  was  listening,  too,  won- 
dering when  the  joke  would  come  to  this  rather 
weary  yarn. 

"Wal,"  continued  the  man,  "when  the  ship 
200 


GOTHAM 

foundered  I  struck  out  and  swam.  I  saw  that 
I  was  the  only  survivor;  all  my  comrades  were 
lost." 

"Yes,  father,"  said  the  son. 

"For  many  hours  I  struggled  with  the  cruel  waters, 
till  at  last  I  almost  gave  up  all  hope,  when 
suddenly — " 

"Yes?"  cried  the  expectant  boy.  And  the  audi- 
ence was  also  by  this  time  waiting  anxiously  for  the 
point  of  the  story. 

"I  touched  something  hard,"  he  continued.  "It 
was  the  United  States." 

It  was  during  this,  my  third  visit  to  New  York, 
that  I  was  interviewed  by  a  very  charming  and  clever 
representative  of  a  Chicago  paper  who  was  good 
enough  to  arrange  a  meeting  with  the  late  Mrs.  Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox.  It  was  at  her  apartment  in  New 
York  that  I  first  became  acquainted  with  that  most 
excellent  of  American  innovations  of  the  supper  table, 
the  chafing  dish.  We  dined  very  early  and  sat  over 
our  coffee  and  cigars  at  the  same  table,  chatting  till 
late  in  the  night.  The  company  was  excessively 
amusing  and  the  conversation  of  the  most  entertain- 
ing character,  which  evidently  assisted  in  digesting 
our  dinner,  for  we  were  getting  fairly  hungry  when 
about  eleven  o'clock  the  glittering  silver  dish,  with 
a  glowing  spirit  lamp  beneath  it,  was  placed  upon 
the  table  and  our  brilliant  hostess  manipulated  with 
her  own  hands  a  light  supper.     It  was  in  the  small 

hours  of  the  morning  that  we  left  that  festive  board, 

20 1 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

and  I  think  I  have  seldom  spent  a  more  delightful 
time  at  one  sitting  than  at  that  house. 

Some  years  afterward  I  met  Mrs.  Wilcox  and  her 
husband  on  board  a  Cunarder  on  their  return  journey 
from  England,  where  they  had  been  present  at  the 
solemn  procession  of  the  funeral  cortege  of  our  be- 
loved Queen  Victoria.  The  poetess  had  come  to 
England  for  the  first  time  for  the  purpose  of  describ- 
ing the  obsequies  of  the  late  queen  for  the  New  York 
Journal.  This  she  did  in  her  incomparable  verse. 
But  she  did  not  like  England,  and  London  she  de- 
clared was  the  most  depressing  city  she  had  ever 
visited.  She  could  never  get  warm.  Our  open  fires 
were  abominable  to  her.  All  the  heat  went  up  the 
chimneys,  she  assured  me,  and  she  spent  most  of 
her  time  in  London  on  the  hearth  before  the  fire  with 
the  rug  wrapped  round  her.  She  longed  to  get  back 
to  her  cozy  little  bungalow  in  Connecticut. 

To  those  who  know  how  American  houses  are 
warmed  during  the  winter,  there  seemed  to  be  much 
truth  in  her  indictment  of  the  old-fashioned,  in- 
efficient means  of  heating  our  houses.  It  struck  me, 
while  listening  to  her  experiences  in  London,  that 
that  exquisite  poem  of  hers,  full  of  warmth  and 
passion,  "The  Birth  of  an  Opal,"  and  other  verse 
of  kindred  nature,  might  never  have  been  written 
if  she  had  been  compelled  to  live  in  such  a  chilling 
environment  as  the  city  of  London. 

My  fair  interviewer  also  enabled  me  to  pay  a 
visit    to    the    great    "shilling    shocker"    writer    of 

202 


GOTHAM 

America,  that  versatile  genius  and  prolific  writer 
and  publisher  of  his  own  works,  Mr.  Archibald 
Clavering  Gunter — a  chubby,  genial  man  with  just 
a  slight  resemblance  to  the  late  George  Augustus 
Sala  in  appearance,  but  as  keen  as  a  knife  in  busi- 
ness matters.  He  was  a  thorough  tradesman  who 
knew  his  market  and  turned  out  his  goods  regu- 
larly, so  many  per  annum;  and  these  in  their  tens 
of  thousands  were  greedily  snapped  up  by  the 
American  public.  His  books  were  generally  writ- 
ten with  an  eye  to  making  good  melodramas,  which 
he  himself  dramatized,  superintending  their  pro- 
duction. 

Mr.  Gunter  seemed  to  work  more  or  less  on  the 
lines  of  the  much  maligned  pork-packing  houses  of 
Chicago,  where  every  bit  of  pig  is  used  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  squeal.  But  the  writer  went  further, 
and  practically  ran  in  the  squeal,  for  he  advertised 
his  own  wares.  The  result  was  that  there  was  no 
wealthier  author  in  the  United  States,  or  perhaps 
in  the  whole  world,  than  Archibald  Clavering  Gun- 
ter. He  had  been  chemist,  mining  expert,  stock- 
broker, and  civil  engineer,  and  he  had  superintended 
the  building  of  the  Central  Pacific  Railway.  But 
he  found  writing  and  publishing  his  own  books  and 
producing  his  own  plays  the  most  lucrative  of  all 
his  many  enterprises. 

With  the  many  vicissitudes  through  which  he 
had  passed  it  is  not  remarkable  that  he  had  such 

wonderful   facility   and   accuracy   of  local   color  in 

203 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

his  writings.  The  night  I  dined  with  him  at  his 
charming  flat  on  Fourteenth  Street  I  particularly- 
inquired  how  he  got  that  very  accurate  description 
in  his  admirable  story,  Mr.  Barnes  of  New  York,  of 
a  man  watching  the  exploits  of  H.  M.  S.  Condor 
before  Fort  Marabout  during  the  bombardment  of 
Alexandria. 

Undoubtedly,  it  was  from  Mr.  Cornish,  the  chief 
engineer  on  top  of  the  waterworks  of  that  city,  who 
stuck  to  his  post  and  defended  the  building  from  the 
Arab  rabble.  "I  know  it  must  have  been,"  said  I, 
"by  the  way  you  describe  the  position  of  the  house, 
because  I  have  been  on  that  roof  myself.  From  there 
it  was  possible  to  see  the  little  Condor  moving  out 
toward  her  gigantic  objective." 

"Guess  you  are  too  kind,"  said  the  author,  "in 
interpreting  my  meager  copy  in  this  delightful  way. 
However,  I  do  get  the  grip  of  things  sometimes 
fairly  well.  I  simply  read  the  papers  of  those  days 
of  your  Egyptian  troubles  and  placed  myself  in 
imagination  on  the  roof  of  one  of  the  houses  in 
Alexandria  and  tried  to  describe  what  I  thought 
might  be  the  case.  That's  all;  but  I  am  glad  I  hit 
it  off"  so  well." 

During  one  of  my  visits  to  New  York,  I  was  in- 
vited to  lecture  to  the  cadets  at  West  Point.  There 
was  only  one  other  Englishman  who  had  ever  en- 
joyed this  honor,  and  that  was  Sir  Henry  Irving; 
so  I  appreciated  the  invitation  as  a  very  great  com- 

204 


GOTHAM 

pliment  to  my  profession,  and  I  shall  never  forget 
the  cordial  reception  which  I  received.  I  lectured 
in  the  chapel,  which  was  draped  for  the  occasion 
with  American  and  British  flags,  and  I  have  never 
addressed  a  more  intelligent,  enthusiastic  audience 
than  that  delightful  collection  of  the  brightest  of 
American  youth. 

On  this  visit  to  New  York  I  ran  across  Henry  M. 
Stanley  again,  this  time  at  the  old  Everett  House 
on  the  corner  of  Union  Square,  where  he  was  stay- 
ing while  on  his  honeymoon.  I  remember  well  his 
look  of  wonder  when  I  congratulated  him  upon  his 
safe  return  from  the  Emin  Pasha  expedition. 

Few  people  know  that  before  he  began  to  explore 
Central  Africa  Stanley  was  a  war  correspondent 
and  acted  in  that  capacity  with  Lord  Napier  at 
Magdala  and  with  Viscount  Wolseley  in  Ashantee. 
Wolseley,  in  his  charming  book,  The  Story  of  a  Sol- 
dier s  Life,  writes  of  watching  Stanley  during  the 
battle  of  Amoaful,  and  praises  in  the  highest  terms 
his  conduct  in  that  fight  with  the  wild  African  tribes- 
men: "A  thoroughly  good  man;  no  noise,  no  danger 
ruffled  his  nerve,  and  he  looked  as  cool  and  as  self- 
possessed  as  if  he  had  been  at  target  practice. 
Time  after  time,  as  I  turned  in  his  direction,  I  saw 
him  go  down  to  a  kneeling  position  to  steady  his 
rifle  as  he  plied  the  most  daring  of  the  enemy  with 
a  never-failing  aim.  It  is  nearly  thirty  years  ago, 
and  I  can  still  see  before  me  the  close-shut  lips  and 
determined    expression    of   his    manly   face,  which, 

205 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

when  he  looked  in  my  direction,  told  plainly  I  had 
near  me  an  Englishman  in  plain  clothes  whom  no 
danger  could  appall.  Had  I  felt  inclined  to  run 
away,  the  cool,  firm,  unflinching  manliness  of  that 
face  would  have  given  me  fresh  courage." 


Chapter  XI 

IN   TOUCH   WITH    ROYALTY 

At  Mar  Lodge — I  am  introduced  to  a  learned  Duke,  Prince  Leopold — A 
chat  with  the  Prince  of  Wales,  the  late  Edward  VII — /  sketch  him  in 
Highland  costume — /  don  one  of  his  bonnets — A  royal  deerstalk — A 
few  of  Lord  Fife's  guests — /  am  invited  by  the  Prince  to  stay  at  Aber- 
geldie  Castle — /  meet  the  Princess,  the  present  Queen  Mother — Her 
charm  and  beauty — Queen  Victoria  and  her  daughters  at  a  play  in  the 
coach  house  of  the  castle — A  day  in  the  Queen  s  busy  life  on  Dee-side 
— An  irascible  Field  Marshal  of  the  old  school. 

""\URING  my  wanderings  around  the  globe  in 
*-^  the  capacity  of  special  artist  for  various  jour- 
nals, I  have  been  the  guest  of  emperors,  kings,  vice- 
roys, and  princes,  not  to  mention  "King  Lackland," 
of  the  Tziganes,  whose  realm  is  the  open  road. 
These  dignitaries,  together  with  the  greatest  sol- 
diers, sailors,  statesmen,  and  diplomats,  have  all 
found  places  in  my  sketch  books. 

In  these  days  of  democracies  and  of  Bolshevism, 
arising — as  my  friend,  Baron  Schelking,  has  it — 
from  the  suicide  of  monarchies,  which,  in  turn,  has 
resulted  from  the  greed  and  ambition  of  most  royal 
houses,  it  may  be  interesting  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
the  private  life  of  one  regal  family  that  is  still  loved, 
vol.  i.— 14  207 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

honored,  and  trusted  by  the  nation  which  is  in  spirit 
the  greatest  republic  in  the  world. 

After  a  campaign  I  would  very  often  join  my 
friend  and  confrere,  Archibald  Forbes,  in  the  High- 
lands of  Scotland  for  fishing  and  shooting.  Shortly 
after  my  first  visit  to  the  United  States  in  the  early 
'8o's,  I  was  shooting  with  him  on  Dee-side  when, 
at  the  famous  Braemar  Highland  gathering,  I  met 
the  chief  of  the  clan  McDufF,  the  late  Duke  (then 
Earl)  of  Fife,  who  invited  me  to  join  his  house  party 
at  Mar  Lodge.  The  old  lodge,  an  odd-cornered, 
quaint  building,  mostly  of  wood,  was  picturesquely 
situated  overlooking  a  stretch  of  the  river  Dee. 
The  main  building  was  partly  bungalow  and  partly 
a  series  of  chalets  clinging  to  the  side  of  a  steep, 
wooded  hill  called  the  Eagle's  Craig.  The  whole 
had  grown  from  a  simple  keeper's  lodge  and  from 
time  to  time  had  been  added  to  by  the  late  Countess 
of  Fife,  till  it  had  become  quite  a  village  nestling 
round  a  charming  little  chapel,  the  rare  stained-glass 
window  of  which  Lord  Fife  had  dedicated  to  the 
memory  of  the  Countess,  his  mother. 

The  lodge  and  buildings  were  capable  of  holding 
over  a  hundred  retainers  and  visitors,  and  on  the 
occasion  of  the  present  visitor  of  royalty  a  large 
marquee  was  erected  in  the  open  to  serve  as  a  ball- 
room. It  was  a  characteristic  house  party  the  earl 
had  gathered  together  to  meet  his  Royal  Highness, 
the  Prince  of  Wales  (the  late  King  Edward  VII). 
The  Duke  of  Albany,  the  Marquis  of  Hartington, 

208 


IN   TOUCH   WITH  ROYALTY 

and  Lord  Charles  Beresford  were  among  the  men; 
and  the  Duchess  of  Manchester,  Lady  Charles 
Beresford,  the  Countess  of  Lonsdale,  and  Mrs. 
Standish  were  of  the  ladies  of  the  party. 

The  arrival  of  the  heir  to  the  British  throne  at 
Mar  Lodge  was  devoid  of  any  unusual  demonstra- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  host  or  his  other  guests.  The 
Prince  simply  drove  up  in  his  dogcart  and  his  bag- 
gage was  sent  on  by  coach.  In  fact,  few  of  us  as- 
sembled at  the  lodge  were  aware  of  his  arrival  until 
he  turned  up  at  dinner. 

The  Prince  cordially  disliked  any  show  of  special 
attention  when  once  he  had  broken  loose  from  the 
conventional  life  of  London  and  the  Court.  On 
being  introduced  to  him,  if  you  should  address  him 
as  your  Royal  Highness  more  than  once,  it  was  to 
him  almost  a  personal  affront.  After  the  first  meet- 
ing it  was  usual  to  address  him  as  one  man  to  an- 
other— Yes,  or  No,  sir.  It  was  the  same  with  the 
Princess  of  Wales;  she  always  responded  to  Madame  > 
and  disliked  hearing  the  obsequious  title  your  Royal 
Highness  more  than  once. 

Prince  Leopold,  on  the  other  hand,  was  very  par- 
ticular about  his  titles.  The  night  of  the  arrival  of 
the  Prince  of  Wales  there  was  a  ball  given  in  the 
marquee  erected  in  the  grounds  of  the  lodge.  I  was 
seated  chatting  with  the  Duchess  of  Manchester, 
who  was  watching  the  dancers,  especially  the  Prince 
of  Wales,  who  looked  very  handsome  in  the  Stuart 

tartan  he  affected  for  evening  dress,  when  a  very 

209 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

fair,  blue-eyed  young  man  approached  us  and  the 
Duchess  immediately  introduced  me  and  said, 
"Prince  Leopold,  this  is  Mr.  Villiers."  He  drew  him- 
self up  and  with  some  hauteur  replied,  "Prince 
Leopold,  Duke  of  Albany,  if  you  please,  Duchess." 
She  had  to  say  her  lines! 

But  the  Duke  was  a  delightful  personage,  a  stu- 
dent of  literature  and  art — in  fact,  he  was  sup- 
posed to  be  the  bookworm  of  the  family.  My 
sleeping  room  was  next  to  his  and  a  balcony  in  front, 
where  we  used  to  take  our  tubs  of  a  morning,  was 
common  to  both  of  us.  He  was  probably  the  most 
amiable  of  all  the  princes  and  when  he  died  two  years 
later  he  was  deeply  mourned. 

The  entire  time  that  the  Prince  of  Wales  was  with 
us  the  men  were  fishing  or  deerstalking  all  day.  The 
ladies  would  fish  in  the  mornings  and  meet  the 
stalkers  at  some  bothy  up  in  the  hills  and  give  them 
tea.  After  dinner  there  was  a  gathering  of  a  hun- 
dred gillies,  the  earl's  retainers,  who  marched  down 
from  the  hills  to  the  screel  of  the  pipes,  bearing  the 
slain  stags,  which  were  placed  in  rows  in  the  court- 
yard of  the  lodge.  A  huge  bonfire  was  built  in  the 
center  of  the  quadrangle.  The  gillies,  with^their 
pine  torches  steeped  in  pitch  set  aflare  from  the 
flames,  stood  at  attention.  The  fitful,  uncertain 
light  made  a  scene  that  was  weirdly  picturesque. 

By  this  time  the  diners  had  toasted  the  Prince  in 
good  old  Highland  fashion,  as  in  the  days  of  the 
Charleses,  the  pipers  had  screeled  their  hardest  as  they 

2IO 


IN   TOUCH   WITH  ROYALTY 

stalked  round  the  festive  board  and  were  now  mark- 
ing time  under  the  veranda.  This  was  the  signal 
for  the  earl  and  his  visitors  to  file  out  into  the  quad- 
rangle, when  the  pipes  burst  out  again  in  a  lively  reel. 

The  Prince  of  Wales,  the  Earl  of  Fife,  and  two 
other  guests  responsible  for  the  death  of  the  beasts, 
now  seized  flaring  torches  from  the  hands  of  the 
nearest  gillies  and  took  turns  in  dancing  round  the 
dead  stags.  Then,  with  a  wild  yell  and  to  an 
ear-splitting  screech  from  the  pipes,  all  the  guests, 
including  myself,  headed  by  the  Prince,  took  a 
wild  leap  through  the  bonfire.  I  had  seen  much 
fire  and  smoke  of  a  different  and  more  risky  nature, 
but  at  that  huge  mass  of  fire  and  flame  I  felt  a 
little  nervous.  However,  like  the  rest,  I  had  to 
face  the  ordeal,  and  I  made  a  good  long  running 
leap  and  in  a  second  was  safely  on  the  other  side  of 
the  fiery  wall  without  even  scorching  my  mustache. 
After  this  quaint  ceremony  the  game  was  carried 
to  the  larder  and  the  gillies  marched  slowly  back 
to  their  quarters  headed  by  their  pipes,  whose  efforts 
became  real  music  as  they  droned  and  died  away  in 
the  distance.  Then  a  dreamy  waltz — I  remember  it 
well,  "Dolores" — floated  out  from  the  hall,  played 
by  the  earl's  string  band.  The  guests  hurriedly 
cleared  the  furniture,  and  an  impromptu  dance  com- 
menced, which  kept  up  into  the  small  hours. 

A  source  of  some  amusement  was  an  empty  log 
basket  of  large  dimensions  standing  by  the  hearth. 
Whenever  the  Prince  or  the  earl  passed  within  reach, 

211 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

Lord  Charles  Beresford,  who  was  always  up  to  some 
lively  prank,  would  try  to  double  them  up  in  the 
basket.  Between  dances  he  would  trot  out  an 
invalid  chair,  which  he  had  discovered  in  a  corner 
of  the  room,  and  wheel  the  lady  who  was  acclaimed 
the  beauty  of  the  dance — on  this  occasion  Countess 
Lonsdale — in  triumph  around  the  hall.  These  even- 
ings were  always  full  of  fun  and  frolic  owing  to  the 
lively  pranks  of  Beresford.  Before  taking  up  our 
candles,  most  of  the  men  would  retire  to  the  smoke 
room  for  the  last  "Doch  an'  Doris"  and  then  all 
to  bed. 

During  dessert  on  the  first  night  of  my  visit  to 
the  lodge,  the  Prince  sent  for  me  to  be  seated  by 
him.    He  said: 

"I  think  I  have  seen  you  before,  Mr.  Villiers; 
your  face  is  quite  familiar  to  me." 

His  marvelous  memory  for  faces  was,  I  knew, 
proverbial.  He  had  met  me  before  at  the  gate  lead- 
ing into  the  paddock  at  Goodwood  where  we  both 
were  stuck  for  a  while.  I  am  afraid  I  treated  him 
like  any  ordinary  person  and  did  not  immediately 
give  way,  and  I  remembered  his  good-natured  stare 
at  my  tardy  recognition  and  my  confusion  at  my 
seeming  discourtesy.  I  was  therefore  much  relieved 
when  he  continued: 

"Ah  yes,  of  course;  I  have  seen  a  portrait  of  you 
taken  with  Mr.  Archibald  Forbes,  in  a  lady's  house 
in  London." 

The  Prince  was  much  interested  in  certain  points 
212 


IN   TOUCH   WITH  ROYALTY 

in  the  Russo-Turkish  War,  which  I,  as  an  eye- 
witness of  the  campaign,  was  able  to  give  him.  He 
was  most  eulogistic  of  the  brilliant  services  Col. 
Valentine  Baker  had  rendered  the  Turks,  regretting 
the  loss  to  the  British  army  of  such  an  excellent 
cavalry  leader. 

Major  (afterward  Sir  C.)  Teesdale,  one  of  his 
Royal  Highness's  equerries,  was  seated  at  one  end 
of  the  table,  and  during  the  evening  the  Prince 
toasted  for  him,  for  it  was  the  anniversary  of  his 
gaining  that  much-coveted  decoration,  the  Victoria 
Cross,  and  the  Prince  had  remembered  it;  he  always 
seemed  to  remember  everything  that  was  pleasant 
and  agreeable. 

The  following  morning  Lord  Fife  asked  me  to 
join  his  royal  guest  and  himself  in  a  deer  stalk.  I 
came  down  to  the  hall  prepared  to  start  when  the 
Prince  caught  sight  of  my  cap,  which  I  thought  was 
a  very  becoming  pattern,  though  a  bit  breezy. 

"lam  afraid  that  bonnet  won't  do,  Mr.  Villiers," 
said  the  Prince.  "It's  exceedingly  picturesque,  but 
I  am  afraid  you  would  startle  all  the  deer  in  Scot- 
land with  it." 

"I  have  no  other,  sir!"  I  replied. 

"Never  mind,"  he  laughed  on  seeing  me  a  little 
mortified,  "I  will  lend  you  one  of  mine." 

Presently  I  was  rigged  up  with  a  royal  cap  of  a 
proper  tone  to  melt  in  with  the  rocks  and  heather. 
That  cap  was  an  excellent  fit  and  I  kept  it  all  the 
time  I  was  a  guest  at  the  lodge.     Many  years  after 

213 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

this  incident,  when  our  beloved  Prince,  as  Edward 
VII,  had  passed  away,  I  was  looking  at  some  silk 
hats  at  "Ye  Old  Hatterie" — Mr.  Heath's  shop  in 
Oxford  Street — when  a  salesman  said:  "I  have 
just  the  thing  for  you.  How  will  this  suit?"  and 
he  placed  on  my  head  a  topper  of  wonderful  lines 
and  remarkable  gloss  with  a  golden  star  in  its  cream- 
silk  lining.  It  was  a  perfect  fit.  "I  have  another 
one  like  it,"  he  said.  "You  had  better  take  the 
two.  We  shall  never  make  hats  quite  like  these 
again,  for  they  were  kept  in  stock  for  His  Majesty 
King  Edward." 

"Send  them  on  to  the  club.  I  know  the  fit  quite 
well,"  said  I. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  delightful  tramp  over 
the  hills,  dodging  behind  rocks  and  crawling  over 
the  crisp,  blooming  heather  when  the  gillies,  scouting 
in  front,  made  any  significant  sign.  The  Prince 
was  never  too  absorbed  with  the  sport  to  admire 
the  beauty  of  the  surroundings  when  the  wavering 
mists  unfolded  some  pocket  of  a  valley  with  its 
dew-laden  greenery  and  luminous,  pearly  burns. 
These  scenes  brought  the  conversation  round  to  the 
art  of  reproducing  them  on  canvas.  With  master- 
pieces of  landscapes  and  figures,  with  the  great 
battle  pictures  of  De  Neuville,  the  smaller  studies 
of  Detaille,  and  vigorous  work  of  Regnault,  the 
Prince  seemed  equally  familiar.  In  another  mo- 
ment he  was  unwittingly  making  a  picture  him- 
self,   looking    like    a    Highlander    stalking   Afridis 

214 


IN   TOUCH   WITH  ROYALTY 

up  in  the  hills  of  Afghanistan — a  subject  which  I 
had  often  sketched  during  the  Afghan  war. 

From  rock  to  rock  he  dodged  till  he  settled  down 
behind  some  friendly  boulder,  when  he  took  steady- 
aim.  It  was  curious  how  breathless  with  anxiety 
we  felt  before  the  first  trigger  was  pulled  and  one 
of  a  drive  of  gray,  wraithlike  figures,  stealing  in 
Indian  file  through  the  dapple  purple  mist,  fell  to  his 
gun.  We  hurried  up  to  the  struggling  stag  trying  to 
regain  its  footing,  and  while  we  hung  on  to  its  antlers 
the  Prince  ended  its  sufferings  by  giving  the  coup 
de  grace  with  his  dagger. 

So  for  hours  the  stalk  went  on  till  we  arrived  on 
a  mount  ankle  deep  in  heather,  out  of  which,  in  a 
slight  depression,  a  spring  of  sparkling  water  bubbled. 
Here  we  sat  down  and  my  fellow  stalkers  produced 
their  packages  of  sandwiches  and  commenced  eat- 
ing, filling  their  hunting  cups  from  the  spring. 

"Where  is  your  lunch?"  asked  the  Prince. 

"In  changing  my  cap  I  forgot  my  rations,  sir." 

"That's  too  bad,"  he  replied.  "Take  some  of 
mine." 

We  sat  chatting  and  eating  and  admiring  the  won- 
derful confusion  of  rocks,  crags,  hills,  and  distant 
dales  through  which  rilled  burns  and  waterfalls.  I 
understood  from  the  earl  that  the  country  as  far 
as  we  could  see  belonged  to  him,  and  I  thought 
surely  there  could  be  no  fairer  domain  in  all  Scotland. 

While  we  were  smoking  our  cigarettes  the  Prince 
said: 

2iS 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

"My  dear  Fife,  I  am  going  to  entertain  my  mother 
with  a  play.  She  has  not  seen  one  since  the  death 
of  my  father  upward  of  twenty  years  ago,  and  if 
I  can  get  her  to  come  I  think  the  change  will  do  her 
good." 

Fife  suggested  that  he  approach  Mr.  Gus  Harris, 
the  manager  of  Drury  Lane  Theater,  but  the  Prince 
was  keen  on  another  manager,  Mr.  Edgar  Bruce, 
who  had  just  produced  a  play  that  had  taken  Lon- 
don by  storm,  called  "The  Colonel,"  and  that 
comedy  was  decided  on  before  the  stalk  recom- 
menced. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  arrived,  after  the  Prince 
had  killed  a  few  stags,  at  a  bothy  where  the  ladies 
of  the  party  served  tea.  The  dead  stags  were 
collected  and  sent  down  to  the  base  of  the  hills 
slung  across  sturdy  little  ponies,  and  we  went 
back  to  the  lodge  in  the  house  drags. 

The  late  Marquis  of  Hartington,  who  eventually 
became  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  was  one  of  the 
most  interesting  of  the  house-party.  He  was  a 
tall,  rather  gaunt  type  of  man.  His  visage  was 
long  and  devoid  of  any  kind  of  brightness — lacking 
even  the  sparkle  of  the  eye  which  sometimes  will 
make  a  homely  face  radiant — yet  one  always  felt 
that  behind  that  taciturn  mask  there  was  tremen- 
dous power.  This  was  vividly  demonstrated  one 
morning  at  breakfast.  That  meal  was  always  a 
movable  feast  at  the  lodge.  I  was  generally  down 
early  and  so  was  Hartington.     I  took  great  interest 

216 


IN   TOUCH  WITH  ROYALTY 

in  the  man,  for  at  this  time  he  was  Secretary  of 
State  for  India  and  there  was  much  trouble  with 
the  tribes  on  the  northwestern  frontier. 

While  he  was  taking  his  first  cup  of  coffee,  a 
messenger  arrived  from  London  with  the  Indian 
mail  which  was  at  once  placed  upon  the  table  in 
front  of  him  in  the  shape  of  two  leather  bags. 

He  immediately  got  up  and  with  his  official  key 
opened  the  first  bag.  This  was  a  most  interesting 
procedure  to  me.  "Now,"  thought  I,  "he  will 
snatch  up  these  important  dispatches  and  engross 
himself  in  their  perusal."  But  nothing  in  the  first 
bag  seemed  to  appeal  to  him;  he  then  opened  the 
second.  Official  envelopes  poured  onto  the  table. 
"Now,  surely,"  I  thought,  "he  will  stick  his  glass 
in  his  eye  and  probably  forget  his  breakfast  in  his 
anxiety  to  read  these  Indian  letters."  Not  a  bit 
of  it;  to  my  surprise,  he  was  still  hunting  in  that 
official  bag  till  at  last  something  ruddy  made  its 
appearance.  He  seemed  to  give  a  sigh  of  relief  as 
he  seized  it  and  returned  to  his  breakfast,  unfolding 
the  Sporting  Times  and  settling  down  to  read  the 
Pink  Un. 

Lord  Rowton,  better  known  as  Sir  Montague 
Corry,  was  also  a  guest  at  the  lodge.  We  became 
quite  good  friends,  and  after  dinner  we  would  chat 
a  good  deal  about  our  great  Prime  Minister,  Lord 
Beaconsfield,  who,  as  Mr.  Benjamin  Disraeli,  gave 
Rowton  his  first  step  on  "the  rung  of  the  ladder." 

Rowton  was  lean  and  lithe  and  had  pronounced 
217 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

Jewish  features  with  keen,  dark,  protruding  eyes; 
yet  he  had,  I  believe,  no  Jewish  blood  in  his  veins. 
One  night,  over  our  coffee,  he  told  me  how  he  first 
came  across  his  chief.  It  was  at  a  lady's  house  in 
London,  where  he  had  hastily  improvised  some 
Christy  minstrels  for  the  amusement  of  her  guests 
and  was  himself  playing  a  corner  man.  Disraeli, 
sauntering  in  from  one  of  the  card-rooms,  had  over- 
heard his  tomfoolery  and  was  evidently  amused, 
for  after  Corry  had  washed  his  face  and  joined 
the  party  the  Premier  came  up  to  him  and  asked: 

"Are  you  not  the  young  man  who  made  me 
laugh  just  now?" 

"Glad  to  have  amused  you,  sir,"  returned  Corry. 

"I  thought  it  was  very  bright  and  clever," 
answered  the  great  statesman.  "Come  and  see 
me.     I  should  like  to  meet  you  again." 

"I  thought  but  little  of  this  invitation  at  the 
moment,"  Lord  Rowton  told  me.  "But  some  time 
after  this  meeting  I  wanted  employment,  and  I 
decided  to  call  on  the  great  man  and  see  if  he  would 
befriend  me.  He  received  me  kindly,  but  told  me 
that  he  could  offer  me  nothing  at  the  time.  Many 
months  passed  by  and  I  concluded  that  I  had 
completely  passed  out  of  his  memory,  when  one 
morning  I  got  a  note  asking  me  to  call.  When  I 
saw  him  I  found  the  old  man  had  not  forgotten 
me,  but  had  been  waiting  all  this  time  for  the 
opportunity  to  offer  me  a  secretaryship." 

One  night  in  the  cool  of  the  veranda  of  the  lodge, 
218 


IN   TOUCH   WITH  ROYALTY 

Rowton  related  to  me  the  final  lap  of  the  "peace 
with  honor"  incident. 

"You  know,  Villiers,"  said  he,  "I  was  really 
the  indirect  cause  of  that  event  coming  off".  Lord 
Beaconsfield  was  not  quite  accustomed  to  the  wily- 
diplomatic  maneuvers  of  the  great  German  Chan- 
cellor. During  the  Peace  Congress  at  Berlin  in 
'78,  after  the  Russo-Turkish  War,  which  lingered 
on  for  days  and  days  without  any  definite  settle- 
ment, 'Dizzy'  got  so  disgusted  that  he  told  Bis- 
marck that  if  certain  points  were  not  conceded 
Great  Britain  at  once  he  would  break  up  the  con- 
ference and  quit.  Of  course  the  German  Chan- 
cellor thought  this  was  all  diplomatic  bluff  and 
evidently  winked  his  other  eye.  I  could  see  that  a 
threat  of  this  kind  by  my  chief  was  useless,  so  I 
thought  things  over  and,  without  letting  him  know, 
wired  to  the  railway  officials  at  Dover  to  send  a 
Channel  steamer  to  meet  a  special  train  at  Calais 
from  the  Franco-German  frontier  on  a  certain  date. 

"This  settled  the  matter,  for,  of  course,  every 
telegram  sent  home  by  the  delegates  was  read  by 
Bismarck,  and  mine  didn't  puzzle  his  brain  much, 
for  it  was  not  in  cipher.  He  evidently  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  my  chief  meant  business,  and 
therefore  he  climbed  down  to  meet  our  views,  and 
we  came  back  to  London  with  flying  colors.  When 
I  told  'Dizzy'  of  my  ruse  later  on,  he  recognized 
that  I  had  certainly  done  the  trick." 

The  next  evening,  just  before  dinner,  one  of 
219 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

the  guests — a  well-known  Scottish  laird  who,  like 
Beresford,  was  keen  on  practical  jokes — said  to 
me: 

"Villiers,  I  am  going  to  make  the  Prince  angry 
with  me  to-night.     Now  you  watch." 

"I  think  you  will  have  a  difficult  job,  for  he 
seems  to  me  to  be  the  most  amiable  of  mortals. 
I  doubt  if  you  will  disturb  him  much." 

"Well,  you  just  watch,"  was  his  only  reply. 

When  dinner  was  announced  the  Prince,  as 
usual,  was  the  first  to  enter  the  dining  room  and 
take  his  chair.  He  then  urbanely  smiled  on  us  all 
as  we  seated  ourselves. 

A  bright  conversation  buzzed  round  the  room, 
and  H.  R.  H.  was  exceedingly  cheerful.  I  keenly 
watched  my  friend,  who  was  calmly  seated,  almost 
opposite  him,  eating  his  soup.  I  looked  at  the 
Prince;  he  was  still  smiling.  Presently  he  happened 
to  glance  in  my  friend's  direction,  his  smile  at 
once  disappeared,  his  face  slightly  flushed  and 
became  very  stern.  Certainly  the  Prince  was  some- 
what annoyed. 

My  friend  was  still  at  his  soup  and  seemed  to 
be  doing  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary,  but  when- 
ever the  conversation  lagged  the  Prince  looked  in 
his  direction  and  frowned.  "How  on  earth  has  he 
soured  him?"  I  wondered.  When  we  gathered 
later  on  in  the  smoking-room  my  friend  came  up 
to  me  and  said: 

"Did  you  notice  him?" 

220 


IN    TOUCH   WITH  ROYALTY 

"Of  course  I  did,  but  how  did  you  manage  it? 
He  was  certainly  annoyed." 

"Now  just  look  me  all  over.     Don't  you  see?" 

"No,  nothing  of  an  unusual  character,  unless," 
I  hesitated,  "you  have  overcurled  your  mustache." 

"Oh  rot!"  he  laughed.     "It  was  my  tie." 

"Well,  what  about  your  cravat?  It's  not  even 
awry." 

"No,  but  it's  the  color  that  fixed  him;  it's  not  a 
white  one.  The  Prince  hates  black,  and  it's  an  un- 
written law  in  dining  with  him  to  wear  only  white." 

While  the  Prince  was  staying  with  the  Earl  of 
Fife,  the  Princess  of  Wales  (now  the  Queen  Mother) 
came  over  from  Abergeldie  Castle,  the  Prince's 
residence  in  the  Highlands,  to  a  picnic  with  the 
earl's  party  at  a  picturesque  spot  on  the  River 
Dee.  I  shall  never  forget  the  thrill  of  enthusiasm 
I  felt  at  her  gentle  charm  of  manner  and  at  her 
beauty,  for  she  was  the  original  of  the  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  portraits  that  with  those  of  her 
Majesty  Queen  Victoria  were  bedecking  nearly 
every  homestead  throughout  the  British  Empire, 
and  here  I  was  chatting  with  her  about  my  cam- 
paigns— a  conversation  she  had  kindly  started  to 
put  me  quite  at  my  ease. 

I  found  that  she  had  a  very  accurate  knowledge 
of  all  the  principal  dramatic  incidents  of  the  then 
recent  Afghan  and  Russo-Turkish  wars.  She,  with 
the  Duchess  of  Manchester  and  her  daughter-in- 
law,  Lady  Mandeville,  were  the  life  of  the  party. 

221 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

The  women  fished  for  trout  while  the  men  built 
a  fire  to  boil  the  kettles;  then  the  women  cut  bread 
and  butter  and  improvised  spits  from  the  twigs 
on  which  they  toasted  the  bread,  spread  table- 
cloths over  the  grass,  brought  out  the  cups  and 
saucers  and  prepared  tea.  The  fish,  fresh  from 
the  river,  were  cooked  at  the  end  of  a  toasting-fork 
by  the  Prince  of  Wales  in  as  primitive  a  manner 
as  that  practiced  by  the  chefs  of  The  Swiss  Family 
Robinson.  All  of  our  party  seemed  to  enjoy  the 
sylvan  banquet  as  much  as  the  hungry  members  of 
that  famous  vagabond  family  did  their  rough-and- 
ready  meals,  and  like  them,  but  with  more  enjoy- 
ment, the  aftermath  of  washing  up  the  dishes. 
That  function  was  performed  with  the  greatest 
fun  and  delight  by  all  members  of  the  party  while 
the  stately  footmen  took  their  ease  at  a  respectful 
distance,  not  daring  to  approach  nearer  even  to 
open  a  sardine  tin  or  to  throw  a  fresh  log  on  the 
camp-fire.  They  were  merely  held  in  reserve  to 
carry  the  baskets,  all  packed  and  strapped  by 
members  of  the  party,  to  the  drags  waiting  for 
them  on  the  main  road. 

As  the  Prince  was  about  to  leave  the  lodge  to 
return  to  his  Highland  residence  I  asked  him  if  he 
would  be  good  enough  one  morning  to  give  me  a 
sitting,  as  I  wanted  to  introduce  him  in  a  picture 
of  a  hunt  dance.  He  agreed  at  once.  I  told  him 
I  should  only  be  about  twenty  minutes,  but  when 
that  time  was  up  I  found  my  work  but  half  done. 

222 


IN    TOUCH   WITH  ROYALTY 

With  considerable  fear  of  trespassing  further  on 
his  good  nature,  I     had  to  tell  him. 

"Now,  Mr.  Villiers,"  he  said,  "don't  you  spoil 
your  sketch  for  the  question  of  a  few  minutes. 
Take  another  twenty  if  you  like." 

I  thought  this  very  good  of  him,  for  I  knew  his 
day  was  always  mapped  out  and  he  was  generally 
very  particular  about  keeping  time  in  his  appoint- 
ments. 

The  next  morning  he  left  the  lodge.  We  all 
stood  under  the  veranda  to  wish  him  Godspeed. 
There  was  quite  a  little  crowd  shaking  hands  with 
him.  As  I  stood  at  the  back,  he  happened  to  pass 
me  by.  When  he  drove  out  of  the  gates  in  his 
dog-cart  some  of  us  hurried  by  a  short  cut  down 
to  a  curve  in  the  road  to  wave  our  hats  to  him. 
On  passing  us  he  saw  me,  and,  evidently,  remember- 
ing that  he  had  missed  me  before  cried  out: 
"Good-by,  Mr.  Villiers.  Come  and  see  me  soon 
at  Abergeldie."  And  to  my  great  delight  the  next 
day  I  received  an  invitation  to  go  to  stay  with 
him  and  the  Princess  of  Wales  at  their  castle  on 
Dee-side. 

On  arriving  at  Abergeldie  one  had  to  cross  the 
river  Dee  from  the  main  Balleter  road  in  a  basket- 
cradle  worked  by  ropes  and  pulleys.  There  is 
now  a  bridge  spanning  the  river,  but  in  those  days 
every  one  visiting  the  castle  arrived  at  its  gates 
by  this  primitive  method. 

An   old   feudal   tower   stood   on   the   left   of  the 

vol.  i.— 15  223  . 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

building,  which  was  no  more  than  a  cottage,  for 
the  main  hall  was  used  for  dining,  breakfast,  and 
reception-room  all  in  one.  There  was  a  small 
drawing-room  above  this  where  the  guests,  who 
were  never  very  many  at  a  time,  were  marshaled 
before  going  in  to  dinner  below.  The  Prince  and 
his  family  lived  in  the  cottage  and  the  guests  had 
rooms  in  the  medieval  tower. 

The  first  night  I  was  waiting  in  the  little  drawing- 
room  upstairs  for  the  signal  for  dinner.  Another 
guest  had  just  sat  down  on  the  sofa — an  elderly 
man  with  a  remarkably  powerful  face  and  wonderful 
eyes  which  seemed  as  if  they  would  shine  like  a 
tiger's  in  the  dark.  The  Prince  now  came  in  and, 
seeing  we  had  not  become  acquainted,  took  me  up 
to  him  and,  with  a  laugh,  said: 

"Lord  Napier,  this  young  man  has  seen  more 
fighting  than  you  have;  I  want  you  to  know  him, 
Mr.  Villiers,  the  war  artist." 

The  old  field  marshal  looked  at  me  at  first  with 
a  slight  frown,  then  his  eyes  lit  up  his  rugged  old 
face  and  he  smiled,  and  we  soon  became  good 
friends.  I  had  always  worshiped  him  since  I  was  a 
lad  of  seventeen,  when  he  became  one  of  my  heroes 
after  the  storming  of  Magdala  and  the  capture  of 
the  Ethiopian  King  Theodore.  He  told  me  that  he 
remembered  two  colleagues  of  mine,  Mr.  William 
Simpson,  and  the  explorer,  Henry  M.  Stanley,  who 
were  with  \im  in  the  capacity  of  war  correspondents 
during  his  >  ommand  of  the  Abyssinian  campaign. 

224 


IN   TOUCH  WITH  ROYALTY 

It  was  a  small  party  at  dinner — the  Prince,  his 
equerry,  Miss  Knollys,  the  Princess  of  Wales,  Lord 
Napier,  and  myself.  The  conversation  during 
dinner  was  about  the  coming  theatrical  show  which 
the  Queen  had  promised  to  attend.  The  Prince 
had  thrown  his  whole  heart  and  soul  into  the  work 
of  fixing  the  coach-house  into  a  theater  and  arrang- 
ing for  the  accommodation  of  the  play-actors  and 
the  extra  number  of  guests.  There  was  great 
excitement  for  days  over  the  different  propositions 
to  be  solved  in  order  to  cope  successfully  with  the 
influx  of  visitors  for  miles  around  Dee-side.  At  last 
the  big  night  arrived.  The  little  theater  was  charm- 
ingly arranged;  a  large  marquee  was  erected  in 
the  grounds  for  Mr.  Bruce  and  his  company. 

The  weather  was  perfect.  At  nine  o'clock  Mr. 
John  Brown,  the  Queen's  factotum,  arrived,  with  Her 
Majesty,  who  had  driven  over  from  Balmoral  with 
the  Princesses  Louise  and  Beatrice.  The  Prince 
received  his  mother  at  the  door  of  the  hall.  Mr. 
Bruce  presented  her  and  her  daughters  with  bou- 
quets, and  her  maids  of  honor  followed  her  up- 
stairs to  the  little  drawing-room  which  was  arranged 
for  her  special  use. 

The  theater  was  packed  with  the  lairds  and 
gentry  dwelling  for  miles  around.  Her  Majesty  was 
seated  in  a  chair  in  the  center  of  the  front  row. 
On  her  left  was  the  Princess  of  Wales  and  on  her 
right  were  her  daughters.  I  was  seated  behind  her 
and  a  little  to  the  right,  and  I  noticed  how  amused 

225 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

she  seemed  to  be  with  the  play,  much  to  the  satis- 
faction of  the  royal  family,  who  were  delighted  at 
her  evident  enjoyment.  In  fact,  she  laughed  so 
much  at  the  lively  antics  of  an  Italian  waiter  in 
one  of  the  acts  that  she  shook  her  widow's  weeds 
a  little  awry,  which  kept  the  Princess  of  Wales  and 
the  Princess  Beatrice  quite  busy,  unbeknown  to 
her,  in  keeping  her  cap  and  veil  straight.  The 
whole  show  was  a  tremendous  success,  and  after 
the  play  we  returned  to  the  hall  for  refreshments, 
Her  Majesty  taking  hers  alone  in  the  room  above. 

Before  sitting  down  to  supper,  the  Prince,  with 
his  equerry  and  myself,  visited  the  company  of 
players  in  their  marquee  to  see  that  they  lacked 
nothing  for  their  comfort.  They  were  making  very 
merry  over  their  repast  and  had  evidently  enjoyed 
themselves  during  the  play  as  much  as  we  had. 

I  took  in  to  supper  the  Queen's  Maid  of  Honor, 
who  had  just  left  her  Majesty  upstairs.  She  was 
very  pretty  and  vivacious,  and  was  with  the  rest 
of  the  party  having  a  good  time  when  presently 
she  turned  to  me  and  inquired  the  hour. 

"Oh,  don't  tell  her,  Mr.  Villiers,"  said  the  Prince. 
"She  must  not  go  yet." 

"But,  she  replied,  "the  Queen  will  be  leaving 
soon  and  I  must  attend  her." 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  continued  H.  R.  H.,  "I  will 
see  my  mother  about  it.     Don't  disturb  yourself." 

But  she  stood  up  to  go,  and  added,  "I  know  Her 
Majesty   so   well;    she  will   be  very   annoyed   if  I 

226 


IN   TOUCH   WITH  ROYALTY 

don't  turn  up  in  time."  And  she  skipped  out  of 
the  hall. 

We  sat  up  rather  late  that  night  in  the  smoke- 
room,  for  we  were  all  exceedingly  happy  at  the 
success  of  the  great  event  and  to  think  that  the 
Queen  had  broken  her  reserve  and  had  attended 
the  play.  My  room  was  one  of  those  in  the  old 
tower.  I  lit  my  candle  and  climbed  up  the  spiral 
stone  stair,  when  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  swept 
through  one  of  the  arrow  slits  of  the  wall  and  blew 
out  my  candle.  I  thought  I  would  relight  it  when 
I  reached  my  room,  and  continued  on  in  the  dark. 
I  had  left  my  door  ajar,  so  I  thought  I  could  easily 
recognize  it,  however  black  the  night.  I  was  wear- 
ing rather  a  tight  collar  and  was  longing  to  relieve 
myself  of  it.  On  pushing  open  the  door  I  tore  off 
my  collar  and  tie  and  threw  them  onto  the  bed.  A 
low  growl  came  from  that  direction  and  a  gruff 
voice  cried:  "It's  that  cursed  cat  again.  Damn 
her!"  I  at  once  rushed  out  of  the  room — mine  was 
on  the  next  story  and  this  was  the  room  of  the  great 
field  marshal. 

Before  I  left  Abergeldie,  Queen  Victoria  sent  for 
my  sketch-book.  She  always  took  a  lively  interest 
in  the  many  great  wars  during  her  reign  and  ex- 
pected my  paper  to  forward  her  the  rough  sketches 
sent  home  by  me  from  the  front.  In  those  days 
many  were  simply  scraps  and  notes  with  directions 
for  the  artist  who  was  to  finish  them  up,  for  they 
had  to  be  redrawn  on  wooden  blocks  and  afterward 

227 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

engraved  before  they  could  be  reproduced.  Many 
painters  now  risen  to  fame,  like  Sir  Luke  Fildes. 
Sir  Hubert  von  Herkomer,  and  H.  Woods,  R.A., 
have  embellished  my  work  for  the  Graphic  in  this 
way  and  I  am  proud  to  say  that  the  great  French 
military  artist,  Alfonse  de  Neuville,  painted  his 
famous  picture  of  Tel-el-Kebir  from  my  original 
sketches. 

Sometimes  on  returning  my  portfolio  the  Queen 
would  send  me  a  charming  little  note  through  her 
secretary,  or  a  message  by  one  of  her  equerries. 
One  can  hardly  realize  the  delight  I  felt  in  the 
'seventies  and  'eighties — when  correspondents  had  a 
free  rein  and  could  go  everywhere — to  be  riding 
back  from  some  great  battle  to  the  base  knowing 
that  I  had  in  my  valise  something  that  would 
thrill  all  Europe  from  the  gamin  in  the  street  to 
the  highest  in  the  land. 

There  is  a  common  fallacy,  especially  in  demo- 
cratic countries,  that  royalty  lives  simply  to  have  a 
good  time  at  the  expense  of  the  proletariat.  This  in 
past  ages  with  the  Stuarts  and  the  Bourbons,  for 
instance,  might  have  been  the  case.  But  things  are 
different  now,  at  least  with  British  crowned  heads. 
No  woman  in  the  world  has  ever  worked  harder 
than  the  late  Queen  Victoria;  and  no  man  in  the 
universe  ever  worked  more  strenuously  for  his 
livelihood  than  did  the  late  King  Edward,  both  as 
Prince  of  Wales  and  as  King  of  England.  They 
both  had  a  strong  sense  of  duty  and  never  spared 

228 


IN   TOUCH   WITH  ROYALTY 

themselves  in  serving  the  state  and  upholding  the 
honor  and  glory  of  the  Empire.  And  even  in  ordi- 
nary functions  of  the  Court,  monotonous  and  irk- 
some as  they  might  be,  they  always  played  the 
game. 

As  an  instance  of  this  remarkable  devotion  to 
duty,  I  recall  a  wedding  at  the  chapel  royal  in 
Windsor  Castle  at  which  I  was  present.  The 
German  Emperor,  with  the  Kaiserin,  and  many 
foreign  princes  who  had  arrived  from  the  Continent 
specially  to  attend  the  nuptials,  had  already 
marched  to  their  respective  places  in  the  chapel. 
Then  there  was  a  slight  wait.  I  had  seen  the  Queen 
after  her  afternoon  drive  on  the  day  before  carried 
by  her  Indian  servants  from  the  carriage  up  the 
palace  steps,  evidently  crippled  with  pain,  and  I 
thought  the  pause  in  the  proceeding  was  owing  to 
her  decision  not  to  attend.  But  in  this  I  was  mis- 
taken, for  she  turned  up  just  in  time  for  the  cere- 
mony and  passed  down  the  aisle  to  the  altar  without 
assistance,  bowing  to  her  regal  guests,  the  most 
imperial  and  stately  figure  of  them  all,  when  most 
women  in  those  distressing  circumstances  would 
have  pleaded  sickness,  remained  in  bed,  and  let  the 
whole  function  "go  hang"! 

The  Queen's  life  in  the  Highlands  was  always  a 
busy  one.  At  eight  o'clock  every  morning  one  of 
the  castle  pipers  played  a  lively  tune  on  the  bag- 
pipes outside  her  bedroom  window  at  Balmoral  to 
wake   her   up.     After   breakfast   there   was   nearly 

229 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

always  office  work  to  do,  signing  papers  and  con- 
sulting her  Minister-in-Waiting.  Then  came  a  walk 
through  the  grounds  or  out  into  the  highroad  with 
the  Princess  Beatrice,  and,  after  luncheon,  private 
letters  to  write  and  a  drive  in  the  direction  of 
Ballater  or  to  the  Lynn  of  Dee,  calling  by  the 
way  on  some  bedridden  or  sick  old  woman  or  passing 
the  time  of  day  with  the  poor  folk. 

Occasionally  the  Princess  Beatrice  would  assist 
the  daughter  of  the  cottage  to  make  tea,  when  some 
tasty  buns,  cakes,  or  jellies  were  produced  from  the 
royal  carriage  for  the  old  people  and  the  Queen 
would  join  in  a  cup  of  tea.  Her  visits  to  her  poor 
neighbors  were  always  a  delight  to  her,  and  she 
was  much  annoyed  if  inquisitive  visitors  to  Dee-side 
waylaid  her  carriage  for  a  peep  at  her  on  these 
drives  abroad. 

It  was  an  understood  thing  that  people  who 
possessed  shooting  lodges  on  Dee-side  near  the 
royal  castle  should  discriminate  as  to  their  tenants. 
I  remember  meeting  my  friend,  the  then  owner  of 
Invercauld,  who  wanted  to  let  his  house,  for  it  was 
rather  too  large  for  his  wife  and  child,  containing, 
so  the  legend  goes,  some  sixty  bedrooms.  His 
agent  in  Aberdeen,  he  told  me,  had  been  approached 
by  a  prospective  tenant  who  desired  to  rent  it  for 
the  season.  Finding  that-  this  person  hailed  from 
South  Africa  and  was  one  of  the  nouveaux  riches 
from  the  mines,  the  owner  told  his  factor  to  ask  a 
very  high  figure  for  the  purpose  of  frightening  the 

230 


IN   TOUCH   WITH  ROYALTY 

fellow  off.     However,   a  check  for  the   amount   in 
advance  arrived  by  the  next  post. 

But  the  new  tenant  never  made  him  anxious. 
He  kept  in  his  grounds  for  weeks,  never  showing 
himself  or  his  family  on  the  highroad  when  the 
Queen  was  likely  to  pass  by.  Her  Majesty  at  last 
began  to  inquire  about  her  new  neighbor,  and, 
recognizing  the  consideration  he  showed  for  her 
privacy,  she  invited  him  and  his  wife  to  tea  at 
Balmoral,  and  she  evidently  found  them  quite 
charming,  for  the  entente  cordicle  continued  to  the 
end  of  the  tenancy,  much  to  the  relief  of  the  per- 
turbed owner  of  Invercauld. 


Chapter  XII 

THE    LITTLE    CLOUD    IN   THE    NEAR    EAST 

The  Alexandrian  riots — Arabi  Pasha — The  British  fleet  arrives — The 
"Swell  of  the  Ocean" — Lord  Charles  Beresford — /  am  his  guest  on 
board  H.  M.  S.  "Condor" — /  am  somewhat  responsible  for  the  bombard- 
ment of  the  forts — The  "Condor"  is  under  fire  and  acquits  herself  well — 
The  water  picnic — "Well  done,  Charley!" — The  famous  gunboat 
puts  to  sea — The  cable  ship — A  journalistic  triumph — The  burning 
harem. 

MY  staying  with  the  Prince  of  Wales  in  the 
Highlands  brought  me  a  sheaf  of  social 
engagements  and  for  a  year  I  enjoyed  the  hospital- 
ity of  a  number  of  delightful  people  and  took  a 
complete  rest  from  the  ardous  duties  of  the  war- 
artist.  But  the  lure  of  campaigning  was  too  strong 
upon  me  to  dally  any  longer  with  the  delights  of 
social  amenities  and  the  ease  and  comfort  of  studio 
life.  Therefore  in  June  of  the  following  year  I 
accepted  a  commission  from  the  Graphic  to  go  to 
Egypt.  Quite  suddenly  a  little  cloud  had  appeared 
on  the  Near-Eastern  horizon.  An  attack  had  been 
made  by  a  fanatical  Alexandrian  mob  upon  Eu- 
ropeans living  in  that  city,  and  trouble  was  brew- 
ing in  the  vicinity  of  England's  highway  to  India, 

232 


THE  LITTLE  CLOUD  IN   THE  NEAR  EAST 

the  Suez  Canal.     So  I  took  the  next  steamer  to  the 
land  of  the  Pharaohs. 

When  I  landed  in  Alexandria,  Arabi  Pasha,  the 
Egyptian  patriot  and  Commander-in-Chief  of  the 
Khedivial  army,  had  just  entered  the  town  with  a 
strong  force  of  infantry  to  restore  order  and  protect 
the  lives  and  property  of  Europeans  after  the 
attack  upon  them  by  the  natives  which  occurred 
on  the  nth  of  June.  Europeans,  however,  had 
very  little  confidence  in  Arabi  and  were  leaving 
the  port  daily  with  their  goods  and  chattels  to 
seek  safety  on  board  the  ships  in  the  harbor.  The 
troops  whom  Arabi  commanded  were  a  slipshod, 
musket-nursing  set,  who  lacked  the  discipline  and 
smartness  of  their  British-officered  brethren  of 
to-day.  In  those  days  a  fellaheen  soldier,  calmly 
seated  on  a  chair  borrowed  from  an  adjacent  shop, 
sewing  buttons  on  his  uniform  while  on  sentry-go, 
or  standing  bootless  in  his  sentry-box  to  keep  his 
feet  cool,  was  a  common  sight  in  the  streets  of 
Alexandria. 

Yet,  withal,  he  was  cleanly  in  attire,  sparkling 
with  metal  buttons  on  his  dazzling  white  tunic,  and 
picturesque  in  color  by  virtue  of  his  deep  red  tar- 
boosh and  the  olive  brown  of  his  countenance.  In 
those  days  sewing  buttons  on  his  tunic  was  about 
the  only  martial  accomplishment  in  which  the 
Egyptian  soldier  excelled.  Still,  the  populace 
feared  him,  which  was  the  most  important  con- 
sideration in  the  present  instance. 

233 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

The  British  fleet  had  by  now  arrived  in  Egyptian 
waters,  so  I  called  to  pay  my  respects  on  the  British 
Admiral,  Sir  Beauchamp  Seymour  (afterward 
Lord  Alcester),  on  his  flagship.  I  could  not  quite 
understand  the  sobriquet  given  by  the  navy,  "The 
Swell  of  the  Ocean."  It  was  certainly  not  by 
virtue  of  his  attire,  because  I  found  him  on  the 
quarter-deck  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  perspiring  under 
his  solar  topee.  The  weather  was  exceedingly  hot 
and  he  was  continually  lifting  his  helmet  and 
mopping  his  forehead  with  a  voluminous  colored 
kerchief. 

After  pleasantly  greeting  me,  he  said,  "Your 
colleague,  Mr.  Cameron,  is  also  on  one  of  my  ships 
and  is  coming  to  dine  with  me  this  evening;  will 
you  join  us?" 

I  replied  that  I  would  do  so  with  pleasure. 

There  was  a  hearty  blufFness  about  the  Admiral 
that  was  irresistible.  He  was  rather  thickset,  of 
medium  height,  and  he  had  a  face  that  reminded 
one  of  the  skipper  in  Millais'  famous  picture  "The 
North-West  Passage" — strong  and  genial,  but  one 
that  could  quickly  turn  into  a  sternness  most  impos- 
ing and  emphatic.  It  changed  in  this  way  while  I 
was  talking  to  him.  His  flag-lieutenant,  now  Ad- 
miral of  the  Fleet  Sir  Hedworth  Meux,  saluted  and 
reported  the  French  Admiral  coming  aboard.  The 
genial  light  died  out  of  Seymour's  keen  gray  eyes 
and  as  they  flashed  anger  he  growled,  "What  the 
devil  does  he  want  with  me  now?" 

234 


THE  LITTLE  CLOUD  IN   THE  NEAR  EAST 

"He's  at  the  gangway.  Will  you  receive  him 
in  your  coat,  sir?"  asked  Lambton. 

"Why,  hang  it,  yes!"  replied  the  Admiral,  who 
had  completely  forgotten  his  negligee  attire.  In 
another  moment  he  was  wrestling  with  his  dress- 
jacket  and  epaulettes  and  sword.  He  had  just 
time  to  straighten  himself  out  and  twist  his  face 
into  an  affable  smile  before  the  dapper  little  French 
officer  approached  him. 

The  last  time  I  saw  the  Admiral  in  Egypt  was 
when  he  transferred  his  flag  to  the  Invincible  during 
the  bombardment  of  the  forts,  because  of  her  light 
draught,  so  that  he  could  anchor  before  Fort  Mex 
and  slog  away  at  it  with  her  broadsides. 

When  I  returned  to  the  shore  things  were  be- 
coming excessively  uncomfortable  in  the  town.  The 
continued  flight  of  the  Europeans  made  the  Arabs 
very  insolent  to  those  who  remained  behind  and 
the  hotel  accommodation  suffered  from  lack  of 
service  and  scantiness  of  food.  I  was  therefore 
glad  when  the  commander  of  H.  M.  gunboat  Condor, 
whom  I  had  met  at  Mar  Lodge  the  previous  year, 
asked  me  to  take  potluck  on  board  his  ship,  which 
had  come  in  with  the  rest  of  the  fleet  and  was  now 
anchored  in  the  harbor,  suggesting  in  his  cheery 
way  that  it  might  be  safer  and  even  more  comfort- 
able there  than  in  quarters  in  the  town.  He  was 
right,  for  his  cabin  was  daintily  furnished  and  had 
the  appearance  of  a  cozy  drawing-room.  At  night 
the  cabin  was  transformed  by  means  of  two  swaying 

235 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

cots  hitched  to  the  ceiling,  into  a  sleeping  chamber; 
and  a  real  silver  bath  was  introduced  ready  for  our 
ablutions  in  the  morning.  In  addition  to  all  of  this 
there  was  a  well  stocked  wine-locker. 

The  Condor,  by  reason  of  her  shallow  draught, 
was  moored  in  the  inner  harbor  close  in-shore  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Ras-el-tin  palace,  the  summer 
residence  of  the  Khedive.  There  were  many  stories 
afloat  regarding  this  close  proximity  of  Beresford's 
gunboat  to  the  palace.  One  was  that  she  was 
told  off  to  assist  the  ladies  of  the  Khedivial  harem 
to  escape  if  Arabi,  the  rebel,  should  suddenly  show 
his  teeth  and  surround  the  palace. 

If  this  story  were  true,  there  was  no  man  in  the 
service  fitter  to  do  this  delicate  work  than  Beres- 
ford,  for  his  gallantry  to  all  ladies  in  distress  was 
proverbial.  As  the  naval  officer  deputed  to  look 
after  the  refugees  from  the  city  on  board  the  numer- 
ous tramp  steamers  in  the  harbor,  he  had  by  his 
urbanity  and  gentleness  gained  the  admiration  and 
confidence  of  the  women-kind  of  all  the  various 
nationalities  seeking  the  protection  of  the  British 
fleet.  Many  a  scheme  was  suggested  by  those  on 
board  the  Condor  for  the  rescue  of  the  Khedive's 
wife  and  children  if  things  came  to  a  crisis — and 
this  might  happen  at  any  moment,  for  Arabi  and 
his  followers  were  becoming  very  truculent. 

About  two  hundred  yards  from  the  palace,  at 
the  beginning  of  the  narrow  isthmus,  in  which 
stands  the  lighthouse  of  Ras-el-tin,  was  apparently 

236 


THE  LITTLE  CLOUD  IN   THE  NEAR  EAST 

a  gigantic  mushroom  with  its  white  top  glistening 
in  the  strong  glare  of  the  sun.  The  commander  of 
the  Condor  always  had  a  decidedly  suspicious 
regard  for  this  object.  It  was  the  cover  to  the  only 
dangerous  piece  of  ordnance  that  Arabi  might 
possess  if  a  rupture  with  the  British  fleet  took 
place,  for  it  concealed  a  breech-loading,  quick- 
firing  gun  en  barbette,  which  could  be  elevated  or 
depressed  and  was  capable  of  delivering  from  its 
exalted  perch  a  plunging  fire  upon  the  decks  or  the 
anchored  ships. 

Beresford  provided,  however,  for  any  trouble 
that  might  arise  from  this  battery  by  converting 
the  shoreward  side  of  the  Condor  into  a  temporary 
ironclad.  This  he  accomplished  by  dressing  her  in 
chain-armor.  Every  scrap  of  spare  iron  and  chain 
found  on  board  was  hung  over  her  bulwarks,  giving 
her  quite  a  list  to  starboard.  Day  and  night  a 
watchful  glass  was  continually  being  turned  toward 
the  monster  mushroom;  but  the  gun  below  was 
never  seen.  Indeed,  we  found  out  afterward  that 
its  elevating  gear  was  out  of  order;  so  it  was  never 
able  to  test  out  the  Condor's  improvised  coat  of 
mail. 

After  a  hard  day's  work  in  the  stufFy  streets  of 
Alexandria,  I  used  to  look  forward  to  Charley 
Beresford's  breezy  hospitality  at  night — the  dinner 
on  deck  under  the  soft  light  of  an  Egyptian  moon, 
with  the  table  graced  with  all  the  artistic  odds  and 
ends  which  embellish  the  tables  of  well-appointed 

237 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

homes.  We  would  enjoy  our  evening  meal  as 
usual,  eating  our  fish  before  our  meat,  when  to- 
morrow at  the  same  hour  we  might  ourselves  be 
meat  for  the  fishes,  for  each  dawn  brought  us 
nearer  to  a  rupture  that  would  set  the  ships  blazing 
at  the  forts — and  those  white  stone  walls  would 
return  the  compliment  with  interest  from  their 
gaping  embrasures.  This  event  came  to  pass 
rather  sooner  than  we  expected  and  I  happened  to 
be  the  indirect  cause  of  precipitating  matters.  I 
had  landed  one  morning  at  the  marina,  when  I  met 
a  smart,  enterprising  Scotchman,  a  storekeeper  of 
Alexandria,  who  supplied  the  British  fleet  with 
fresh  beef  and  coal.  He  was  full  of  some  important 
news  which  he  presently  imparted  to  me.  Arabi 
Pasha  had  defied  the  ultimatum  sent  in  by  the 
British  Admiral  by  mounting  additional  guns  in 
the  forts.  This  was  important  information,  for 
Sir  Beauchamp  Seymour  had  intimated  to  the 
Egyptians  that  if  any  guns  were  mounted  after  a 
certain  date  he  would  regard  the  act  as  a  casus  belli, 
and  the  British  ships  would  immediately  resort 
to  bombardment. 

"What  are  your  proofs  that  Arabi  has  defied  the 
Admiral?"     I  inquired. 

"You  will  soon  have  them,"  said  he.  "If  you 
drive  at  once  to  my  brother's  house  overlooking 
the  old  harbor,  you  will  see  from  the  balcony  what 
the  Arab  gunners  have  been  doing  during  the 
night." 

238 


THE  LITTLE  CLOUD  IN   THE  NEAR  EAST 

I  hurried  to  the  address  given  me,  and  with  the 
assistance  of  a  telescope  I  sketched  the  cannon  that 
had  been  dragged  into  position  under  cover  of 
darkness  and  had  been  deserted  by  the  gunners  as 
soon  as  daylight  disclosed  their  movements.  I 
returned  to  the  marina  and  rowed  out  to  the  Con- 
dor, whose  commander  promptly  carried  the  im- 
portant tidings  to  the  Admiral.  A  smart  young 
officer  disguised  himself  as  an  Arab  boatman  and 
volunteered  to  corroborate  my  information.  To 
test  his  disguise  he  attempted  to  board  the  Ameri- 
can warship,  but  the  make-up  was  so  perfect  that 
the  Yankees  turned  the  deck  hose  on  him.  Luckily 
he  was  in  full  retreat  down  the  side  of  the  vessel 
when  this  happened.  He  then  rowed  ashore  and 
was  able  to  prove  the  treachery  of  Arabi.  Then 
the  order  was  given  for  the  British  ships  to  clear 
for  action. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  last  meal  on  board  the 
Condor  before  the  fighting  commenced.  The  com- 
mander had  invited  the  captains  of  the  French, 
German,  and  American  ships  to  dinner,  and  a 
right  jovial  little  party  we  made  on  deck.  How 
peaceful  the  city  looked  as  the  glorious  moon  lit 
up  its  mosques  and  minarets! 

"Ah!  by  this  time  to-morrow,"  I  reflected,  "that 
peaceful  city  may  be  in  ashes,  and  some  of  yonder 
fleet  calmly  shadowing  the  sparkling  waters  may  be 
at  the  bottom  of  the  harbor!" 

But   soldiers   and   sailors   are   too   busy   and   too 

vol.  i.— 16  239 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

light-hearted  to  think  of  what  to-morrow  may  bring. 
We  were  all  very  merry  that  night.  There  was  but 
one  gloomy  man  at  the  cheerful  board,  and  that 
was  the  French  captain;  and  the  reason  of  his 
melancholy  was  that  he  would  have  no  opportunity 
to  distinguish  himself,  since  his  government  had 
decided  to  keep  out  of  the  trouble,  and  had  refused 
the  British  invitation  to  join  in  the  enterprise. 

Characteristic  speeches  were  made  by  the  guests. 
The  American  said  many  good  things,  but  one  I 
shall  always  remember:  "Well,  Beresford,  I  guess 
I  should  just  like  to  be  waltzing  round  with  you 
to-morrow  dropping  a  shell  in  here  and  there;  and 
I  know,"  pointing  at  the  German  captain,  "that 
I  am  expressing  the  sentiments  of  that  Dutchman 
yonder,  when  I  say  that  he  would  like  to  do  the 
same." 

The  German  arose  in  his  wrath,  grew  red  in  the 
face,  then  saw  the  joke,  sat  down  again,  and  we  all 
burst  out  laughing.  It's  a  common  thing  for  Ameri- 
can sailors  to  call  a  German  a  Dutchman,  but  in 
Germany  it  was  not  advisable  in  those  days  to  try 
it  on  with  a  Prussian  officer,  naval  or  military. 

The  Frenchman  was  quite  pathetic  at  parting. 
Pressing  the  hand  of  his  host,  he  sorrowfully  said, 
"Monsieur  le  Capitaine,  it  is  the  fault  of  my  govern- 
ment; but  if  I  am  not  with  you  in  body,  I  shall  be 
with  you  in  spirit.       Adieu!" 

Shortly  before  sunset  the  same  evening  Lord 
Charles  Beresford,  who  had  been  in  close  consulta- 

240 


THE  LITTLE  CLOUD  IN   THE  NEAR  EAST 

tion  with  the  Admiral  on  board  the  flagship, 
returned  to  the  Condor  and  at  once  called  the  crew 
together,  when  from  the  bridge  he  gravely  ad- 
dressed them  somewhat  to  this  effect:  "My  men, 
the  Admiral's  orders  to  the  Condor  for  to-morrow 
are  to  keep  out  of  action,  to  transfer  the  signals 
of  her  bigger  sisters,  to  more  or  less  'nurse'  them 
if  they  get  into  trouble."  Eloquent  groans  burst 
from  the  men.  "But,"  continued  their  commander, 
"if  an  opportunity  should  occur"  [and  he,  Beres- 
ford,  rather  had  the  idea  that  it  would],  "the  Condor 
is  to  take  advantage  of  it  and  prove  her  guns." 

The  crowd  of  upturned  faces,  listening  to  these 
significant  remarks,  now  shone  with  satisfaction  in 
the  ruddy  afterglow  of  the  sunset;  and  then  Lord 
Charles  added  that  no  matter  what  happened, 
he  was  confident  that  they  would  give  a  good 
account  of  themselves  and  their  smart  little  ship. 
To  see  the  gleam  in  their  eyes,  who  could  doubt 
that  within  them  beat  hearts  as  stout  as  in  those 
hearts  of  oak  of  the  grand  old  days? 

All  available  canvas  was  then  got  out  and  draped 

round  the  inboard  side  of  the  ship's  bulwarks  and 

hammocks  were  slung  round  the  wheel  to  protect 

the   men    and    steering   gear   from    flying   splinters. 

The  topmasts  were  lowered,  the  bowsprit  was  run 

in,   and  the  gatling  gun  in  the  maintop  was  can- 

vased    round;    even  the    "idlers" — who  consist  of 

the     stewards,     engine-room     artificers,     and     odd 

hands — were    armed    and    had    ammunition    given 

241 


VILLI ERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

them.    Nothing  was  left  to  the  morning  but  sanding 
the  decks. 

There  was  little  sleep  that  night.  As  I  lay  in 
my  cot,  courting  slumber,  in  the  fitfulness  of  my 
dreams  I  could  catch  the  familiar  squeaking  noise 
of  the  fiddle  coming  from  the  fo'c'sle  as  the  crew 
passed  the  feverish  hours  before  the  impending 
action  with  a  hornpipe  or  some  popular  ditty. 
Even  the  old  gunboat  seemed  to  bestir  herself  long 
before  dawn,  for  the  hissing  of  steam  and  rattle  of 
coal  told  me  that  the  engineers  were  stoking  her  up 
for  the  struggle.  At  the  first  peep  of  day  the  Condor 
steamed  off  from  her  moorings  and  followed  the 
other  vessels  out  of  the  harbor  as  they  took  up 
their  stations  for  bombarding. 

The  action  I  am  about  to  describe  was  the  first 
engagement  I  had  been  in  at  sea  with  the  British 
fleet,  and  it  savored  of  the  old  Nelsonian  days. 
I  think,  therefore,  it  is  worth  relating  for  that 
reason  alone;  it  was  the  last  of  the  old  style  of 
fighting  when  ships  went  in  close  to  their  objectives 
and  slogged  away  until  one  or  the  other  threw  up 
the  sponge.  The  pugilistic  expression  may  well  be 
used,  by-the-bye,  for  the  sponge  was  a  necessary 
factor  in  the  firing  of  muzzle  loaders.  Naval  war- 
fare of  today  is  familiar  to  the  reader,  owing  to  the 
achievements  of  the  Allied  fleet  which  has  earned 
the  unstinted  praise  of  the  whole  world;  but  in 
those  days  it  was  so  different  in  every  feature! 

After  assisting  H.  M.  S.  Temeraire>  who  had  fouled 
242 


THE  LITTLE  CLOUD  IN   THE  NEAR  EAST 

her  chain  on  the  Boghas  reef,  to  get  clear  again,  we 
had  nothing  much  to  do.  The  large  ships  were  all 
busily  engaged,  but  the  Condor  was  marking  time 
only,  much  to  the  disgust  of  the  impatient  crew. 
At  last  Beresford  decided  to  exploit  a  fort  which 
was  playing  long  bowls  with  the  Admiral's  ship, 
anchored  close  in-shore  and  bombarding  Fort  Mex. 
Away  we  steamed.  The  men  now  stripped  their 
jackets,  the  racers  of  the  guns  were  oiled,  the  deck 
was  sanded  and  the  powder  monkeys  took  up 
position. 

As  we  neared  Fort  Marabout,  and  its  terraces 
and  embrasures  bristling  with  Armstrong  guns 
looked  out  of  the  morning  haze,  not  a  man  aboard 
but  knew  the  peril  of  our  audacity — for  a  little 
gunboat,  one  of  the  smallest  in  Her  Majesty's 
service,  to  dare  attack  the  second  most  powerful 
fortress  in  Alexandria!  But  the  shout  of  enthu- 
siasm from  the  men  when  the  order  was  given  to 
"open  fire"  readily  showed  their  confidence  in 
their  leader. 

Our  muzzle-loaders  ran  out  "all  a-port"  and 
blazed  away.  The  smoke  hung  heavily  about  the 
decks.  The  flash  of  the  cannonade  lit  up  for  a 
moment  the  faces  of  the  men  already  begrimed 
with  powder  and  steaming  with  exertion,  for  the 
morning  was  hot  and  sultry.  The  captain  from 
the  bridge,  with  glass  in  hand,  watching  anxiously 
the  aim  of  his  gunners,  would  shout  from  time  to 
time: 

243 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

"What  was  that,  my  men?" 

"Sixteen  hundred  yards,  sir." 

"Give  them  eighteen  this  time,  and  drop  it  in." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir!" 

Then  a  shout  from  the  men  in  the  maintop  told 
us  on  deck  that  the  shot  had  hit  its  mark.  The 
little  ship  quaked  again  and  again  with  the  blast 
of  her  guns.  Our  men  became  dark  as  negroes 
with  the  heavy  black  powder  and  were  continually 
dipping  their  heads  in  the  sponge  buckets  to  keep 
the  grit  from  their  eyes. 

At  this  moment,  luckily,  a  slight  breeze  lifted  the 
dense  fog  of  smoke  and  all  on  board  could  plainly 
see  the  enemy  working  in  their  embrasures.  One 
of  our  shots  had  fallen  well  within  the  enemy's 
works,  and  another  had  knocked  off  a  yard  or  two 
of  the  scrap. 

The  Arab  gunners  now  deliberately  trained  one 
of  their  Armstrongs  in  our  direction.  At  the  same 
moment  our  engine-bell  sounded,  and  the  Condor 
steamed  ahead.  There  arose  a  pufF  of  smoke  from 
the  fort,  then  came  the  rush  of  a  shell  through  the 
air,  and  a  spout  of  water  leaped  up  far  a-starboard. 

A  hearty  cheer  burst  from  our  men  as  they  leaped 
to  their  feet  (for  the  order  was  to  lie  prone  between 
shots)  the  enemy  had  missed  us!  When  the  Arabs 
reloaded  and  brought  their  guns  to  bear  once  more, 
the  Condor  steamed  astern  and  this  time  their  shell 
whistled  across  her  bows.  Meanwhile  the  enemy's 
fire   on    the    ships    attacking    Fort    Mex   slackened, 

244 


THE  LITTLE  CLOUD  IN   THE  NEAR  EAST 

and  soon  ceased  altogether.  After  silencing  two  of 
the  enemy's  guns,  the  Condor  was  obliged  to  retire 
out  of  action  for  lack  of  ammunition,  but  in  spite 
of  this  the  Admiral  sent  the  signal  now  historic 
in  the  chronicles  of  the  British  Navy,  "Well  done, 
Condor!" 

The  episode  of  the  Condor  was  one  of  the  pleas- 
antest  I  have  ever  taken  part  in.  There  was  no 
blood  or  hurt  about  it — at  least  with  us.  The  late 
Archibald  Forbes  in  one  of  his  charming  lectures 
referred  to  the  early  days  of  the  Russo-Turkish 
campaign  as  a  perpetual  picnic  with  a  battle  thrown 
in  here  and  there  for  variety.  This  affair  of  ours 
was  a  water-party,  with  just  sufficient  black  powder 
burned  to  create  an  appetizing  thirst,  with  a  long 
drink,  not  necessarily  a  soft  one,  thrown  in  now  and 
again  to  quench  it.  As  we  joined  the  rest  of  the 
ships  their  crews  manned  the  yards  or  rushed  to 
the  bulwarks  as  we  passed  by,  shouting  "Three 
cheers  for  Charley  Beresford's  ship!" 

After  the  bombardment  we  covered  for  a  short 
time  the  landing  party  sent  to  spike  the  guns  of 
Fort  Mex.  Then  the  Condor  was  ordered  to  carry 
dispatches  to  the  cable-ship  Chiltern,  which  was 
standing  by  out  at  sea. 

Cameron  came  on  board — the  Standard  special 
correspondent  who  died  with  other  heroes  in  the 
struggle  for  the  relief  of  General  Gordon  a  few 
years  later.  He  will  always  be  remembered  by 
those    remarkable    telegrams,    giving    the    exciting 

245 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

details  of  the  bombardment,  that  from  hour  to 
hour  were  cried  through  the  London  streets  in 
special  editions  of  the  Standard. 

But  few  knew  under  what  trying  circumstances 
this  brilliant  coup  of  journalism  was  achieved.  As 
soon  as  we  put  to  sea  the  Condor,  whether  intoxi- 
cated with  the  excitement  of  her  little  exploit  or 
inebriated  with  her  newly  acquired  fame,  behaved 
herself  as  badly  as  a  Channel  packet  boat  in  choppy 
weather,  for  she  pitched  and  rolled  disgracefully. 
Poor  Cameron  suffered  much  through  mal-de-mer . 
From  the  captain's  cabin  to  the  upper  deck  and 
the  side  of  the  vessel  he  was  continually  rushing  to 
and  fro,  scribbling  away  at  his  telegrams.  When 
we  reached  the  Chiltem  he  staggered  on  board  more 
dead  than  alive,  but  his  despatches  had  plenty  of 
vitality  in  them,  and  formed  one  of  the  ablest 
pieces  of  work  he  ever  did. 

When  we  returned  to  Alexandria  the  ironclads 
had  finished  their  work  of  destruction.  About  five 
in  the  afternoon  the  fleet  retired  to  its  rendezvous 
outside  the  reefs  and  passes.  The  famous,  historic 
city  lay  wreathed  in  smoke,  and  as  the  shades  of 
night  fell  the  glare  of  the  burning  harem  of  the 
Ras-el-tin  palace,  accidentally  set  afire  by  its 
proximity  to  the  fort,  was  the  only  outward  sign 
that  the  great  God  of  War  had  that  day  sailed  in 
Egyptian  waters. 


Chapter  XIII 

CITY    OF    LURID    LIGHT 

The  landing — Cameron  and  I  penetrate  to  the  square — Gruesome  discovery 
— Our  wary  movements — We  sight  the  American  contingent — A  wel- 
come patrol — We  serve  in  the  first  fight  ashore — Dead  Horse  Picket — 
A  scrimmage  among  the  fishes — My  broken-eared  charger. 

\ 

'"POWARD  the  morning  of  the  day  following  the 
*  bombardment  of  Alexandria  fresh  fires  burst 
out  in  several  quarters  of  the  city.  Apparently  the 
great  square  was  involved,  for  the  flames  leaped 
more  fiercely  in  that  direction.  Evidently  the 
Arabs  were  looting  and  burning. 

The  British  fleet  could  hold  the  harbor  and  the 
stores  down  by  the  hard  or  marina,  but  the  ships 
could  not  muster  sufficient  men  to  police  the  town, 
so  the  British  Admiral  was  glad  to  accept  the 
offer  of  the  mercantile  marine  in  the  harbor  to 
supply  voluntary  units  from  their  crews  for  this 
duty  ashore.  Even  then,  there  was  only  a  sufficient 
number  to  patrol  the  quays  and  the  streets  for  a 
few  hundred  yards  inland.  The  interior  of  the  town 
was  a  mass  of  flame  and  smoke,  the  latter  hanging 
like   a  pall  over  the   stricken  city.     No  news   had 

247 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

come  from  the  inner  portions  for  over  two  days 
when  my  friend  Cameron  and  I  agreed  to  penetrate 
as  far  as  we  could  towards  Place  of  Mehemet  Ali 
Pasha,  where  all  the  finest  European  stores  were 
located,  and  report  their  condition. 

We  left  the  marina  at  nightfall  and  slunk  cau- 
tiously through  the  meaner  streets,  carefully  avoid- 
ing the  main  thoroughfares.  In  the  fitful  light  of 
distant  flames  as  the  burning  embers  shot  skyward, 
we  could  see  bodies  lying  here  and  there  outside 
looted  stores,  probably  Greeks  who  had  elected  to 
stand  by  their  goods  and  had  fallen  at  their  posts; 
and  occasionally  a  guilty-looking  dog  would  slink 
by  with  a  growl,  disturbed  in  some  orgy  we  dared 
not  conjecture.  Cats  mewed  piteously  for  water, 
for  the  mains  had  burst  and  all  supply  had  ceased. 

The  rumble  of  the  burning  buildings,  as  they 
flared  and  toppled  to  the  ground;  the  hissing  of 
steam  as  the  melting  leaden  piping  let  loose  jets 
of  water  into  the  burning  debris,  and  the  howls  and 
screams  of  frightened  animals  made  the  night 
hideous.  At  last  we  arrived  at  our  destination 
and  looked  upon  what  was  once  the  famous  square. 
Never  was  sight  more  appallingly  grand  than  this: 
a  whole  quadrangle  of  lurid  flame.  The  trees,  once 
the  glory  of  the  square,  though  set  well  in  the 
center  were  shriveling  in  the  heat.  The  sap  was 
hissing  into  steam  and  the  stems  were  beginning  to 
split  and  burn. 

With  the  exception  of  stray  animals  not  a  living 
248 


CITY  OF  LURID  LIGHT 

thing  was  to  be  seen.  It  was  most  uncanny,  as  if 
the  whole  ghastly  tragedy  had  been  arranged  for 
our  private  view.  We  stood  spellbound  for  a 
moment,  and  then  Cameron  suddenly  drew  my 
attention  to  several  weird-looking  objects  in  the 
center  of  the  square.  With  beating  hearts  we 
approached  cautiously  towards  them,  when  in 
horror  we  both  gasped,  "They  are  mutilated  bodies, 
armless,  and  headless."  A  thrill  of  terror  passed 
through  us,  but  as  we  drew  nearer  Cameron  caught 
me  by  the  sleeve  and  we  came  to  a  halt  and  laughed, 
for  they  were  only  dressmaker's  dummies  looted 
from  a  shop  in  the  square,  stripped  of  their  finery 
and  left  to  perish  in  the  flames. 

The  old  church  standing  a  little  back  from  the 
front  face  of  the  square  was  still  intact,  and  the 
club  near  by  had  not  yet  caught  fire.  The  police 
and  court-house  at  the  end  of  the  Place  were  just 
beginning  to  shed  smoke. 

Anyway,  we  had  penetrated  into  the  heart  of 
the  city,  so  we  now  returned  to  the  marina.  The 
retrograde  movement  we  considered  to  be  fraught 
with  danger,  for  though  Arabs  lurking  in  the 
shadows  of  the  burning  ruins  might  not  feel  inclined 
to  attack  while  we  advanced,  thinking  there  was 
a  body  of  troops  behind  us,  they  might  well  try 
to  cut  us  off"  and  murder  us  on  our  return. 
However,  Cameron  carried  a  repeating  rifle  and  I 
had  a  six-shooter,  so  we  felt  fairly  comfortable, 
and    started    back    by  the  way  we   had   come,   as 

249 


V1LLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

usual  courting  the  shadows  of  the  buildings  still 
standing. 

We  kept  close  together  and  agreed  that  if  we 
were  attacked  Cameron  would  kneel  and  I  would 
stand  up  behind  him  with  my  revolver  and  in  this 
formation  we  would  open  fire  and  do  our  best  to 
knock  over  the  enemy  before  they  closed  in  upon 
us.  We  had  not  gone  far  when  suddenly  we  heard 
the  tramp  of  troops  and  at  once  we  took  cover  in 
the  shadow  of  a  store.  We  knew  that  they  could 
not  be  our  own  men  for  we  had  only  sufficient 
patrols  for  the  marina.  Therefore  they  must 
surely  be  the  enemy.  Still  there  was  about  their 
footfall  a  smartness  which  did  not  suggest  any  of 
Arabi's  men,  and  in  another  moment  we  were  sur- 
rounded by  American  marines,  who  had  been  sent 
ashore  from  their  warship  in  the  harbor  to  assist 
the  British  bluejackets  in  keeping  order  in  the 
town.  We  were  able  to  give  them  information  and 
directed  them  to  the  English  club  which  they 
eventually  made  their  headquarters. 

We  got  safely  back  to  the  marina  with  our  news 
and  the  next  morning  a  small  body  of  odd  units 
and  idlers  from  the  ships  in  the  harbor  were 
mustered  and  began  to  police  the  city  to  stop  the 
looting  and  any  further  firing  of  the  buildings. 
Within  a  short  time  troops  began  to  arrive  and 
the  land  campaign  against  Arabi's  army  com- 
menced. Also  after  that  came  the  war  corre- 
spondents.     Birds   of  this    feather   generally   flock 

250 


CITY  OF  LURID  LIGHT 

together,  not  out  of  affection  for  each  other's 
society,  but  to  keep  a  watch  on  one  another  and 
to  jump  the  news  if  possible.  I  had  scored  thus 
far  with  the  fleet,  but  now  I  was  stranded  for  want 
of  a  horse,  something  then  most  difficult  to  get  as 
they  had  all  been  snapped  up  by  the  members  of 
the  fourth  estate.  I  went  to  rest  one  night  very 
disconsolate  for  this  reason.  At  dawn  there  came  a 
thundering  knock  on  my  door. 

"What  the  deuce  are  you  up  to?"  I  shouted,  as 
I  sprang  from  my  bed.  "You'll  break  it  down  in 
a  minute.  Here!  Stop  that  row.  I'm  coming," 
and  in  another  moment  it  was  open. 

"You  must  have  taken  too  much  soda  with  your 
whisky  last  night.  I  have  been  trying  to  wake 
you  for  the  last  fifteen  minutes!"  said  my  friend 
and  colleague,  Drew  Gaylor,  the  correspondent  of  a 
London  daily. 

"Well,  what  is  it  all  about,  now  you're  here?" 
said  I.     "At  this  time  in  the  morning,  too!" 

"Put  on  your  boots  and  come  along,"  said  my 
friend,  as  he  looked  at  his  watch.  "In  another 
hour  the  opening  fight  of  the  campaign  will  begin." 

I  looked  at  him  as  I  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
half-dazed  with  my  sudden  awakening. 

"You're  sure  it  isn't  a  fool's  errand?  For  you 
know  we  have  been  sold  with  scares  upon  scares  for 
the  last  five  days." 

"No,  it's  all  right.  I  got  the  tip  last  night.  The 
first  regiment  has  been  on  the  march  for  the  last 

25 l 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

two  hours  already,  and  this  time  business  is  meant 
for  a  certainty." 

"Well,  Gaylor,  it's  very  good  of  you  to  trouble 
yourself  about  me,  but  I  haven't  got  a  horse,  so 
don't  let  me  be  a  burden  to  you.     I  will  come  later." 

"I've  got  a  mount  for  you.  It's  all  right.  She 
is  rather  a  sorry-looking  beast,  but  she  will  carry 
you  through  the  day  for  what  work  we  want — 
saddle,  bridle  and  all,  so  don't  waste  time.  Get  into 
your  boots  and  come  along.  We  shall  be  the  only 
men  there  and  you'll  have  to  thank  me  for  a  good 
start  in  this  war,  for  we  shall  be  back  with  the  news 
before  these  other  fellows  know  there's  any  fighting 
going  on." 

It  was  not  long  before  I  was  out  in  the  open  and 
mounted  on  the  gray  mare  Gaylor  had  so  thought- 
fully brought  for  me.  My  quarters  were  near  the 
Ramleh  railway  station,  and  the  Mediterranean 
washed  the  shingle  just  below  my  window. 

We  had  to  ride  along  the  shore  for  the  first  few 
hundred  yards,  past  two  famous  obelisks  which  had 
stood  as  monuments  in  Cleopatra's  time  and  were 
now  lying  half-buried  in  the  sand  and  the  scum 
and  wash  of  the  tideless  sea.  I  little  thought  at 
that  moment  that  only  a  few  years  later  I  would 
be  looking  at  one  of  those  obelisks  from  the  table  of 
a  luxurious  dining-room  on  the  Thames  Embank- 
ment, and  that  a  few  years  later  still  I  would  be 
trying  to  make  out  the  hieroglyphics  on  the  face 
of  the  other  in  Central  Park,  New  York. 

252 


CITY  OF  LURID  LIGHT 

It  was  scarcely  yet  dawn  and  we  would  not 
trust  ourselves  to  the  possibility  of  delay  at  the 
Rosetta  Gate,  for  the  drawbridge  was  never  down 
till  sunrise;  so  Gaylor  made  for  the  railway  em- 
bankment, which  was  a  very  good  idea,  as  the 
metals  ran  straight  through  the  enemy's  lines,  and 
by  moving  along  the  track  we  were  bound  to  get 
somewhere  near  the  front. 

It  was  rather  risky  work  in  more  ways  than  one, 
for  there  was  a  dull,  gray  mist  hanging  around  us, 
forcing  us  to  keep  well  between  the  rails  for  fear  of  a 
tumble  down  the  steep  embankment. 

After  the  first  excitement  at  suddenly  finding 
myself  on  the  eve  of  a  big  adventure,  I  pulled  my- 
self together  and  began  to  examine  the  steed  that 
was  carrying  me.  She  was  an  iron-gray,  weak- 
kneed  looking  brute,  with  her  right  ear  lying  flat 
along  her  neck,  which  gave  her  a  very  ugly  and 
vicious  aspect.  I  had  seen  upcountry  horses  in 
Australia  wearing  a  similar  expression  when  on  the 
point  of  buck-jumping,  so  I  said  to  Gaylor: 

"What  are  the  bad  points  about  this  mare? 
She  looks  a  vicious  beast,  anyway." 

"Oh,  it's  all  right.  She's  as  quiet  as  a  lamb 
now.'"' 

"Was  she  ever  wicked?" 

"Yes,  she  had  a  devil  of  a  temper  once,  but  I 
cured  her." 

"Really?  How  do  you  account  for  that  ugly- 
looking  ear?" 

253 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

"That's  just  the  point,"  said  my  friend.  "She 
showed  a  bit  of  a  temper  one  morning;  she  not  only 
would  not  let  me  mount  her,  but  wanted  to  eat  me 
at  the  same  time.  So  I  simply  tried  an  old  South 
African  dodge,  which  is  always  efficacious — I  gave 
the  brute  a  clout  with  a  crowbar  across  her  right 
ear  which  laid  it  flat  along  her  neck,  as  you  see,  and 
it  has  remained  there  ever  since.  You  can  trust 
that  animal  with  your  best  girl  now.  She  is  as 
sweet  tempered  a  beast  as  you  ever  straddled." 

I  was  young  and  trustful  in  those  days,  and 
though  it  seemed  a  cruel  way  of  horse-taming,  I 
never  doubted  my  friend's  South  African  experi- 
ences for  a  moment,  especially  as  the  mare  picked 
her  way  carefully  over  the  sleepers  and  never 
showed  a  bit  of  vice  all  through  the  day.  But  I 
had  occasion  to  remember  the  animal,  as  will 
appear  later. 

On  approaching  the  village  of  Ramleh  the  line 
swerved  to  the  left,  and  we  passed  through  a  station 
that  had  a  suggestion  of  a  Swiss  chalet  about  it. 
At  its  back,  on  a  ramp  of  ground  which  farther 
on  dipped  down  toward  the  sea,  were  a  few  rather 
fine-looking  villas,  and  standing  in  the  center  of  a 
clump  of  palm  trees  was  the  Hotel  de  Beau  Sejour. 
There  was,  however,  not  much  of  beau  sejour  now 
about  the  vicinity,  for  down  by  the  station  on  the 
night  before,  under  the  Egyptian  moon  and  the 
shadow  of  swaying  palms,  a  bloody  little  skirmish 
had   taken    place.     The   model   chalet-station   had 

254 


CITY  OF  LURID  LIGHT 

received  an  unwelcome  visit  from  the  picturesquely 
garbed  Bedouins  of  the  desert.  The  ticket-office 
was  riddled  with  bullets  and  the  signal-post  for  the 
down-line  was  knocked  out  of  gear.  This  mattered 
little,  for  there  was  no  train  service  either,  with 
the  exception  of  the  iron-clad  truck  on  which  a 
six-pounder  had  been  mounted  by  our  bluejackets. 
The  line  was  always  clear  to  them;  if  not,  they 
cleared  it  with  common  shell.  There  was  not  a 
living  soul  in  or  round  this  village  of  Beau  Sejour 
when  we  passed  through  it  that  morning,  save  a 
few  stray  dogs  sniffing  about  the  bodies  of  two  or 
three  Bedouins. 

Out  toward  the  desert  on  our  right  the  line  ran 
along  a  high  embankment,  looking  in  its  contortions 
like  a  veritable  sea-serpent  stranded  on  the  sand. 
The  head  of  the  monster  seemed  to  rise  a  little  as  it 
was  lost  in  the  enemy's  camp  at  Kaffir-el-Douar,  its 
tail  trailing  off  through  the  chalet-station,  where,  for 
the  moment,  we  had  come  to  a  halt  for  breakfast. 

A  ration  of  canned  beef  and  cold  tea  was  con- 
sumed under  the  shadow  of  the  booking-office,  for 
the  sun,  although  but  a  few  minutes  above  the 
horizon,  had  dispelled  the  mist  hanging  over  the 
desert,  and  scorching  day  was  upon  us. 

About  a  mile  from  the  station  we  came  across 
some  men  of  the  6oth  Rifles  who  were  stripped  to 
their  flannels  and  hastily  throwing  up  breastworks. 
From  one  trench  a  grim  relic  had  been  unearthed — 
an   almost   perfect   skeleton   of  a   man.     Tommy, 

VOL.  I.— 17  255 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

with  his  ever  ready  if  not  over-nice  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  had  made  a  scarecrow  of  it  and  had 
stuck  it  up  on  the  top  of  the  parapet  as  a  whole- 
some warning  to  the  enemy's  sharpshooters.  Every 
moment  fresh  objects  were  being  discovered  as  Mr. 
Atkins  sweated  and  swore  at  his  work,  now  metal 
buttons,  now  belt-clasps,  or  shreds  of  cloth. 

Examining  some  of  the  buttons  I  found  them  to 
be  of  English  regimental  pattern,  but  a  belt-clasp 
was  decidedly  French.  Then  the  explanation 
occurred  to  us:  we  were  preparing  to  fight  on  the 
very  ground  where,  three-quarters  of  a  century  ago, 
the  English  under  Abercrombie  fought  the  French 
under  Menon,  and  both  found  a  common  grave. 
Well,  to  what  better  purpose  could  the  dust  of  those 
brave  dead  be  put  than  to  protect  their  living 
countrymen  from  the  bullets  of  the  foe?  As  soon 
as  it  was  realized  that  the  bones  were  probably 
those  that  once  belonged  to  our  brethren  in  arms 
there  were  no  more  scarecrows  seen  decorating  the 
parapets  of  the  trenches. 

Our  scouts  were  already  in  touch  with  the  enemy. 
Down  by  a  fringe  of  palms,  fig  trees  and  wild  cacti 
skirting  a  road  running  at  right  angles  to  the  railway 
through  the  enemy's  lines,  little  puffs  of  smoke 
were  floating  upward.  Men  were  busy  down  there 
killing  each  other.  Round  and  about  a  few  mud 
huts  the  red  tarboosh  of  the  Egyptians  could  be 
distinctly  seen,  but  their  wearers  did  not  cling  to 

those  huts  for  long.     Our  advancing  line  of  skir- 

256 


CITY  OF  LURID  LIGHT 

mishers  pressed  them  too  hard  and  they  soon 
retired  up  the  road  to  the  shelter  of  their  works. 
An  Egyptian  officer  riding  a  white  horse  tried  to 
rally  the  stragglers,  but  his  charger  was  shot  under 
him   and   he   hurriedly   joined   his    retreating   men. 

The  horse  he  left  behind  lay  dead  in  the  shadow 
of  a  thick  clump  of  palms  at  the  angle  of  the  road. 
This  point,  leading  direct  to  the  Egyptian  strong- 
hold, became  historic  during  the  campaign;  it  was 
always  under  the  enemy's  fire  and  very  often  under 
ours.  I  remember  later  in  the  day  moving  along 
that  road,  not  knowing  that  the  enemy's  bullets 
swept  so  far.  I  was  riding  about  three  hundred 
yards  behind  a  famous  British  officer  and  his  aide- 
de-camp,  when,  without  any  warning  he  and  his 
aide  plunged  down  the  left  bank  of  the  road,  care- 
fully avoiding  that  clump  of  trees.  I  thought  this 
was  strange  behavior  until  I  neared  the  spot  my- 
self, when  a  sound  like  the  buzzing  of  mosquitoes 
around  me  and  the  twang  of  a  bullet  or  two  into 
the  body  of  the  dead  horse,  caused  me  to  follow 
the  example  of  that  famous  British  officer.  "Dead 
Horse  Picket"  soon  became  noted  for  the  pungency 
of  its  situation. 

The  miseries  of  war,  even  in  this  uninteresting 
petty  skirmish,  were  only  too  apparent.  In  the 
shadow  of  one  of  the  mud  huts  on  the  roadside  lay 
a  negro  woman,  dying.  She  had  just  been  delivered 
of  a  child,  which  lay  dead  in  the  sand  by  her  side. 
Bending  over  her  was   an  Arab  woman  who  had 

257 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

pluckily  remained  behind.  I  made  signs  that  they 
need  not  fear,  and  gave  the  poor  creature  some 
water. 

With  the  exception  of  the  dead  horse  and  the 
negress  no  other  casualties  occurred  in  the  first 
brush  with  the  enemy,  and  Tommy  Atkins  was 
soon  climbing  fig  trees  and  quenching  his  thirst 
with  the  green,  juicy  pods.  Occasionally  a  bullet 
came  in  his  direction,  but  figs  were  a  luxury  and 
Tommy  didn't  mind  running  a  little  risk.  We  as- 
certained, however,  as  a  result  of  this  skirmish,  that 
Arabi  intended  to  remain  on  the  defensive,  that  the 
enjormous  wall  of  sun-dried  mud  cutting  the  road 
and  railway  at  Kaffir-el-Douar  was  to  be  our  ob- 
jective, and  that  the  Egyptian  commander  would 
not  trouble  us  until  we  attacked  his  stronghold. 

The  whole  affair  was  hardly  worth  the  trouble 
of  turning  out  of  our  bed  so  early,  but  still  Gaylor 
and  I  were  the  only  correspondents  on  the  spot, 
and  our  telegrams  would  make  good  captions  for 
the  newsboys  to  cry  in  the  streets  of  London. 
Therefore  we  hurried  back  with  the  news.  Dusty 
and  weary,  we  sighted  at  last  the  walls  of  Alex- 
andria. The  drawbridge  was  just  being  raised  and 
the  portcullis  dropped  for  the  night  as  we  spurred 
our  horses  on  to  it  and  trotted  through  the  town  to 
our  quarters. 

As  we  walked  into  the  Hotel  Abbot  we  could 
not  hide  our  satisfaction  in  scoring  over  our  fellow 
correspondents,      We   took    our    accustomed    seats 

258 


CITY  OF  LURID  LIGHT 

at  the  table  and  commenced  dinner.  Our  colleagues 
had  not  seen  us  all  day,  and  they  looked  up  at  us 
with  inquiring  glances.  A  gloom  began  to  settle 
on  their  faces  as  they  noticed  our  exultant  mood, 
for  there  had  been  thunder  in  the  air  and  they 
suspected  that  we  had  been  where  the  storm  had 
burst.  Indeed  their  concern  was  justified,  for  there 
were  only  two  London  papers  next  morning  which 
published  an  account  of  the  first  infantry  brush  with 
the  enemy  in  the  Egyptian  campaign  of  '82. 

The  vicious-looking  brute  I  had  ridden  to  the 
skirmish  I  saw  no  more.  Three  months  afterward 
I  was  requested  by  letter  to  visit  the  headquarters 
staff  in  Alexandria.  After  I  had  been  served  with 
a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  cigarette,  one  of  the  officers 
said,  "Were  you  ever  acquainted  with  Mr.  Gaylor, 
the  war  correspondent,  who  has  recently  been  re- 
called to  England?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  knew  him  quite  well." 

"Good!  We  want  to  know  whether  you  re- 
member how  many  horses  he  had." 

"Oh,  I  can  tell  you  that  easily  enough.  He  had 
two,  one  of  which  I've  ridden  myself.  One  was  a 
brown  horse,  the  other  a  gray  mare." 

"A  gray  mare,  Mr.  Villiers?  Do  you  know  where 
he  got  it?" 

"No." 

"We  put  this  question,"  said  the  officer,  "because 
there  is  an  old  Arab  who  has  been  bothering  us  for 
many  weeks  now  and  who  accuses  Mr.  Gaylor  of 

259 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

having  taken  the  horse  from  him — or  at  all  events 
of  flinging  him  a  napoleon  and  requisitioning  the 
animal;  and  the  Arab  does  not  consider  that  ade- 
quate payment  was  made  for  his  steed.  He  gives 
a  full  description  of  the  gray  mare.  He  says  she 
has  a  broken  right  ear,  which  lies  back  on  her 
neck." 

"Ah!"  I  cried.  "That  Arab  must  be  a  lying  old 
scoundrel.  It  is  certainly  a  description  of  the  horse 
I  rode,  but  Gaylor  himself  broke  her  ear  to  cure  her 
of  bad  temper." 

The  officers  looked  at  me  with  astonishment. 
They  were  even  more  astonished  when  I  told  them 
of  Gaylor's  South  African  experiences  in  taming 
horses.  They  roared  with  laughter.  Then  the 
truth  dawned  on  me  and  I  laughed  too. 

British  redcoats,  for  it  was  before  the  days  of 
khaki,  were  now  pouring  into  Alexandria  apparently 
with  the  object  of  attacking  Arabi  at  Kaffir-el- 
Douar.  But  when  Sir  Garnet  Wolseley  arrived  to 
take  command  the  whole  army  was  shifted  by 
transports  to  Suez  and  sent  up  the  Canal  to  Ismalia, 
where  the  troops  were  landed  and  pushed  forward 
in  the  direction  of  Cairo.  But  there  were  many 
dramatic  incidents  before  that  goal  was  reached. 
After  several  minor  skirmishes  with  the  enemy 
along  the  line  of  rail  and  the  Sweetwater  Canal, 
Kassassin  was  captured  in  a  brilliant  charge  one 
night  by  the  Household  Brigade,  and  at  this  point 
the  serious  work  of  the  campaign  commenced. 

260 


Chapter  XIV 

A   GHOSTLY   MARCH 

/  am  invited  to  dine  with  the  Guards — My  vanished  host — Ghostly  relics 
—  The  bivouac — Mysterious  water-wagon — The  midnight  scare — The 
silent  army — Tel-el-Kebir — Cold  Steel — The  charge  of  the  Irish  and 
Scots — The  pipers  in  the  trenches — My  lost  pony  turns  up. 

T^HE  British  army  in  the  Egyptian  campaign  of 
*■  1882  was  many  weeks  concentrating  at  Kassassin, 
preparatory  to  the  final  march  on  Tel-el-Kebir, 
where  Arabi  Pasha  apparently  intended  to  make  his 
last  stand  to  stop  our  advance  upon  Cairo. 

So  strong  was  Arabi's  position  that  Sir  Garnet 
Wolseley,  in  spite  of  his  considerable  force  of  13,000 
men,  would  not  venture  to  assault  the  Egyptian 
works  by  day,  but  resolved  on  a  night  attack.  This 
fact  had  not,  however,  been  taken  into  account 
when  I  was  invited  by  the  officers  of  the  Grenadier 
Guards  to  dine  with  them  on  the  evening  of  Sep- 
tember 1 2th. 

"Seven  sharp.  Bring  your  own  cup,  plate, 
knife,  and  fork,"  they  said. 

These  gentlemen  of  the  Guards   are  not   always 

the  fops  that  is  sometimes  supposed.     The  gilded 

261 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

salons  of  London  society  are  occasionally  deserted 
by  them  for  less  elegant  apartments.  For  instance, 
the  interior  of  the  house  in  which  I  was  to  dine 
constituted  one  large  room  which  was  used  as 
refectory,  reception-room,  and  dormitory. 

At  night  myriads  of  mosquitoes  and  less  aerial 
but  more  irritating  insects  would  swarm  around  and 
attack  us.  During  the  day  the  flies  had  it  all  their 
own  way  and  nearly  maddened  us  by  their  persist- 
ency in  crawling  over  our  perspiring  faces  and 
hands. 

The  Guards  roughed  it  with  admirable  compo- 
sure, and  it  was  quite  a  common  occurrence  to  see 
the  heir  to  a  British  peerage  standing  patiently  in 
the  doorway  of  a  shanty  with  a  strong  contingent 
of  flies  about  his  head  and,  tin  cooking-pot  in  hand, 
apologetically  asking  his  sweating  companions  who 
had  just  come  off  duty  and  were  stretching  them- 
selves on  the  floor  whether  they  would  object  to 
onions  in  their  soup.  For  a  scout,  at  the  risk  of  his 
life,  had  brought  in  a  pocketful  of  leeks  from  the 
enemy's  lines  which  he  had  presented  to  the  officers' 
mess. 

On  the  day  when  I  was  to  dine  with  the  Guards 
I  was  away  from  camp  on  a  trip  to  Ismalia,  whither 
I  had  gone  to  post  a  budget  of  sketches.  Upon  my 
return  to  Kassassin  at  six  in  the  evening,  with  a 
considerable  appetite,  I  found  to  my  consternation 
that,  though  the  tents  were  all  standing  intact,  the 
British    army    had    disappeared,   and    with    it    my 

262 


A  GHOSTLY  MARCH 

prospects  of  dinner.  All  that  remained  of  the 
once  busy  encampment  of  the  Guards  was  empty 
tents  and  piles  of  heavy  baggage  containing  nothing 
edible.  The  cooking  fires  were  still  blazing  (I 
learned  afterwards  this  was  to  fool  the  enemy,  in 
the  belief  the  troops  were  still  in  camp),  but  the 
fleshpots  of  the  British  were  as  much  a  thing  of 
the  past  as  those  of  the  Egyptians  of  olden  times. 

However,  it  was  not  the  first  time  I  had  gone 
dinnerless,  so  I  gave  my  pony  a  drink  of  water,  lit 
my  pipe,  took  in  my  belt  an  inch  or  two,  and  set 
my  face  desertward  in  search  of  my  hosts.  This 
piece  of  strategy — keeping  the  camp-fires  ablaze 
for  hours  after  our  forces  had  quitted  the  ground — 
was  of  great  use  to  me,  for  their  dull  glare  became 
an  excellent  guide  and  I  knew,  if  I  held  them  in 
view,  that  I  must  be  moving  parallel  to  the  Sweet- 
water Canal,  which  was  on  the  left  flank  of  our  line 
of  march.  But  soon  a  thin  haze  slowly  stole  over 
the  desert  and  the  fires  gradually  died  away  in  the 
deepening  gloom.  It  was  curious — this  night  ef- 
fect— and  most  perplexing.  All  sound  of  the  ad- 
vancing army  was  lost  in  the  soft  sand;  not  a 
murmur  penetrated  the  haze  which  veiled  the 
desert,  chilling  one  with  its  moisture  and  preventing 
one  from  seeing  more  than  a  few  yards  in  front, 
though  the  sky  immediately  above  was  clearly 
visible  with  myriads  of  brightly  twinkling  stars. 

My  pony  was  very  restless,  neighing  incessantly 
and  showing  considerable  nervousness.     At  last  he 

263 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

became  almost  out  of  hand.  Pricking  up  his  ears, 
he  snorted  and  pawed  the  ground;  his  eyes,  almost 
starting  from  their  sockets,  strained  to  right  and 
left,  apparently  seeking  some  object.  Presently  a 
curious  smell  impregnated  the  atmosphere  and  a 
ghostly  phosphorescent  light  dimly  nickered  along 
the  sand.  At  this  my  horse  stood  stock-still,  and 
began  trembling  as  if  suddenly  attacked  with 
palsy.  Soon,  straight  in  front  of  us,  appeared  a 
luminous  mass,  which  gradually  took  the  form 
of  a  dead  man,  lying  on  its  back,  with  its  skull 
grinning  up  through  the  bluish  vapor.  "Ah!" 
I  thought  shuddering,  "one  of  those  wretched 
Arabs  who  met  his  fate  in  the  famous  charge  of 
Kassassin."  I  pricked  my  pony  forward,  for  the 
night  grew  chilly,  but  these  horrors  continually 
barred  my  path,  bringing  my  fagged  horse  to  a 
sudden  halt,  till  at  last,  sickening  with  the  ghastly 
monotony  of  the  ride,  I  thought  to  myself,  "If  I 
don't  soon  find  the  British  army  I  shall  probably 
be  found,  one  of  these  hazy  nights,  lighting  the 
desert  in  the  same  indistinct  and  unsatisfactory 
manner,  for,  undoubtedly,  if  I  proceed  much  farther 
without  meeting  friends,  some  Bedouin  scout  will 
want  to  cross  swords  with  me."  I  had  nothing 
with  me  but  my  messing  knife  and  a  six-shooter,  the 
latter  an  uncertain  weapon  in  a  fog. 

At  last  a  loud  neigh  from  my  horse,  to  suppress 
which,  in  my  anxiety  not  to  attract  the  enemy's 
attention,    I    almost   throttled    him,   was    answered 

264 


A  GHOSTLY  MARCH 

from  our  immediate  front  by  a  less  euphonious 
animal — a  commissariat  mule;  and  a  moment  later 
I  almost  tumbled  over  a  veritable  Tommy  Atkins, 
who  resented  my  familiarity  with  an  expletive 
which,  though  vulgar,  was  quite  a  refreshing  form 
of  speech  to  me.     I  had  struck  the  6oth  Rifles. 

"Where  are  the  Guards?"  said  I. 

"On  the  extreme  right,"  replied  an  officer,  and  I 
was  also  informed  that  the  Rifles  were  in  bivouac 
until  midnight  and  were  in  support  of  the  Highland 
Brigade.  When  at  last  I  came  up  with  the  right  of 
the  Highland  Brigade,  most  of  the  men  were  peace- 
fully slumbering  on  their  arms.  It  struck  me  that 
the  Guards  would  be  on  their  left  flank,  so  I  rode 
down  the  line  till,  arriving  at  the  last  companies  of 
the  74th,  I  boldly  marched  out  on  to  the  plain, 
thinking  that  I  should  soon  come  in  touch  with  the 
Grenadiers.  Luckily,  I  fixed  two  stars  over  the 
Highland  position  before  I  pushed  forward.  But 
I  found  no  signs  of  the  Guards,  and  presently  my 
horse  came  to  a  standstill,  staring  into  the  gloom, 
and  I  discovered  a  dark  object  in  front  of  me.  I 
covered  it  with  my  revolver  and  shouted,  "Who 
goes  there?"  when  to  my  surprise  a  man  stood  up 
and  answered,  "Friend." 

I  found  that  he  was  one  of  the  telegraph  trans- 
port, searching  for  the  end  of  a  lost  cable.  He  had 
advanced  with  the  army,  but  had  missed  his  way 
and  the  wire  too.  Upon  his  informing  me  that 
there  were  no  British  troops  in  his  vicinity  I  knew 

265 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

that  we  were  on  the  line  of  the  enemy's  outposts,  so 
I  persuaded  him  to  return  with  me  to  the  Highland 
Brigade.  No  sooner  had  we  arrived  in  the  bivouac 
than  a  most  remarkable  scene  took  place.  In  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye  the  men,  with  suppressed  curses, 
were  struggling  to  their  feet  and  fixing  bayonets 
and  huddling  together  in  rallying  square  formation, 
apparently  preparing  to  resist  cavalry.  Even  the 
supports  scrambled  to  their  feet  as  the  panic  wave 
passed  over  the  desert. 

"For  God's  sake,  what's  the  matter?"  whispered 
the  officers  as  they  tried  to  suppress  the  excitement 
of  the  men. 

To  this  day  there  is  no  answer  given  for  that 
remarkable  scare.  It  was  called  "the  nightmare" 
of  that  famous  march.  The  excitement  soon  died 
out,  but  there  was  little  further  sleep,  for  soon  the 
men  were  pulling  themselves  together  for  the 
coming  fray. 

I  had  by  this  time  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  was  no  use  hunting  farther  for  the  Guards;  it 
was  too  much  like  looking  for  a  needle  in  a  pottle  of 
hay  or  a  bayonet  on  a  misty  desert;  so  I  decided  to 
throw  in  my  lot  with  the  42d  Highlanders. 

I  had  not  gone  far  before  I  came  across  the  bonny 
Scots.  The  Black  Watch  was  drawn  up  in  line  and 
rations  of  liquor  were  being  served  out  to  each  man 
from  suspicious  smelling  water-carts  whose  contents 
savored  more  of  sunny  Jamaica  than  of  the  muddy 
depths  of  the  adjacent  canal. 

266 


A  GHOSTLY  MARCH 

Never  was  the  ruddy  alcohol  more  wisely  ad- 
ministered than  on  this  occasion.  Almost  be- 
numbed and  wet  to  the  skin  with  the  heavy  dew  of 
the  desert  as  the  troops  were,  this  rum  ration  put 
new  life  into  them. 

When  the  order  was  given  to  the  men  to  fix 
bayonets,  the  glint  of  the  steel  was  mirrored  in  their 
eyes,  now  shining  with  the  glow  of  the  grateful 
"tot." 

Veritable  dogs  of  war  they  looked,  as  they  stood 
steady,  waiting  for  the  word,  like  hounds  eager  to 
be  slipped  on  their  quarry.  Their  gallant  old  leader, 
Cluny  McPherson,  mounted  his  charger  and  ad- 
dressing his  regiment  in  a  quiet  voice,  said,  "Men, 
not  a  shot  is  to  be  fired!  All  work  must  be  done 
wi'  cauld  steel!   the  Forty-twa  will  advance!" 

In  lowered  tones  the  command  passed  from 
flank  to  flank,  and  noiselessly  the  dark  columns 
moved  off  through  the  haze,  for  the  thud  of  their 
feet  was  lost  almost  immediately  in  the  velvet 
surface  of  the  desert.  Only  an  occasional  murmur 
or  the  glint  of  a  bayonet  tokened  to  the  night  that 
a  vast  host  was  advancing.  I  stood  watching  this 
somewhat  weird  sight  when  presently  my  ear 
caught  a  curious  noise,  like  the  far  distant  roar  of 
the  breaker  on  a  coral  reef,  and  presently  I  spied  a 
long,  dark,  funereal  line  moving  over  the  desert 
toward  me.  Amid  the  sullen  roar  was  the  clanking 
of  chains  and  a  grating  of  wheels  as  they  crunched 
through  the  sand:    forty-two  cannon  in  line  now 

167 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

broke  the  horizon  of  the  desert.  A  very  bad  quarter 
of  an  hour  the  Arabs  were  likely  to  have  when  this 
enormous  battery  started  its  thunder  that  morning. 
"The  whole  forty-two  are  to  open  fire  upon  a  given 
point  of  the  enemy's  positions,"  was  the  order,  "if 
our  infantry  receives  the  slightest  check  in  the 
trenches." 

The  British  army  that  night  was  led,  literally 
speaking,  by  a  young  naval  officer,  gallant  Lieu- 
tenant Rawson,  R.N.,  who  kept  his  direction  by  the 
stars.  The  dawn  was  to  see  that  faithful  guide  cut 
down  in  his  youth  and  vigor.  He  was  the  first  to 
fall,  shot  through  the  lungs.  When  death  came 
upon  him  his  last  words  as  he  pressed  the  hand 
of  his  chief  were,  "I  led  them  straight,  sir!" 

The  air  soon  became  very  cold — that  unmistak- 
able chill  which  immediately  precedes  the  dawn  of 
day;  and  presently  a  faint  gray  light  penetrated 
the  haze,  gradually  unveiling  the  desert  beyond. 
Before  the  mist  had  lifted  sufficiently  for  me  quite 
to  distinguish  the  British  battalions  forming  for 
the  coming  attack  sparks  of  fire  leaped  up  and  a 
hail  of  bullets  came  singing  over  the  plain  from  a 
long  sandy  ridge  breaking  the  plain  in  our  immedi- 
ate front.  Then  from  flank  to  flank  of  the  enemy's 
works  one  lambent  yellow  flame  seemed  to  rill  the 
desert,  but  there  was  not  a  shot  fired  in  return 
from  our  silent  battalions  now  lying  with  stomach 
to  sand  in  front  of  that  death-belching  trench.  A 
sharp    cry    or    a    suppressed    groan    were    the    only 

268 


A  GHOSTLY  MARCH 

signs  that  the  mute  army  which  the  dispersing 
mist  was  unveiling  to  the  eyes  of  the  astonished 
Arabs  was  of  living  flesh  and  blood. 

In  their  fright  and  frenzy  the  Egyptian  troops, 
with  half-closed  eyes  and  unsteady  nerve,  fired 
apparently  at  random,  as  if  they  had  been  suddenly 
awakened  from  the  throes  of  a  nightmare.  Many 
of  their  bullets  skimmed  wildly  over  the  heads  of 
our  soldiers,  spurting  up  the  sand  as  they  furrowed 
the  drift  beyond. 

"When  will  the  ' advance'  be  sounded?  When 
will  the  order  come?"  asked  our  men  as  they  hugged 
the  sand.  The  passing  minutes  seemed  an  eternity 
to  the  troops  lying  inactive  under  that  galling  fire. 

Suddenly  the  shrill  blast  of  the  bugles  rang  out. 
Then  springing  to  its  feet,  swiftly  and  silently  the 
front  line  sped  on.  The  terrible  hail  of  musketry 
from  the  trenches  entangled  the  onrushing  troops 
for  a  moment  with  falling,  dying  and  dead.  But 
only  for  a  moment,  for  now  our  dogs  of  war  gave 
tongue.  With  wild  cheers  and  to  the  screech  of  the 
bagpipes  the  42d  Highlanders  and  the  18th  Royal 
Irish  seemed  to  outvie  each  other  to  be  the  first  to 
strike  for  the  honor  of  their  flag  that  morning. 

Down  into  the  gaping  trench,  surging  up  over 
the  gilded  ridge  of  murderous  fire,  our  men  pressed 
forward  at  the  charge.  Then,  mixing  in  deadly 
struggle  with  the  foe,  they  commenced  the  bloody 
work  of  the  bayonet.  The  yells  of  anguish  and 
shouts  of  "Allah!  Allah!  Allah!"  were  drowned  in 

269 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

the  weird  screel  of  the  bagpipes,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  all  was  over.  Arabi's  great  earthworks 
were  captured  and  the  battle  was  won. 

When  the  lilac  dawn  broke,  two  miles  of  deep 
trenches  stretching  at  right  angles  from  the  canal 
inland,  were  crowded  with  Egyptian  dead,  and 
large  red  pools  were  soaking  into  the  yellow  sand. 
The  silent  bayonets  had  done  their  work  well.  The 
line  of  retreat  on  the  plain  beyond  was  speckled 
with  dead  and  wounded.  The  latter,  as  the  sun 
climbed  the  heavens  scorching  all  beneath  him,  sat 
up  in  their  agonizing  thirst  and  whimpered  for 
water.  One  old  man  raised  himself  as  I  passed  by 
and  muttered  the  Hindustani  word  pani>  pointing 
to  his  parched  lips.  I  wondered  that  he  had  lived 
so  long,  for  at  least  two  feet  of  his  bowels  were 
trailing  in  the  dust  from  a  bayonet  thrust. 

I  counted  nine  of  the  Highlanders,  all  resting  in 
easy  attitudes  on  the  desert  as  if  in  deep  slumber, 
shot  through  the  brain.  One  young  officer  of  the 
Black  Watch — Grahame  Sterling — was  dying  by 
the  side  of  his  color-sergeant,  who  had  just  breathed 
his  last.  I  was  wondering  what  I  could  do  to  alle- 
viate his  suffering  when  a  little  drummer  boy 
standing  near,  thinking  I  was  about  to  sketch  the 
painful  scene,  snatched  a  pocket-handkerchief  from 
the  breast  of  his  dying  officer  and  gently  let  it  fall 
on  his  face.  It  was  a  graceful  and  thoughtful  act 
of  the  boy's  which  I  shall  never  forget. 

By  this  time  the  sun  was  well  up,  and  the  cries  of 
270 


A  GHOSTLY  MARCH 

wounded  for  water  were  heartrending  to  hear.  I 
was  quite  exhausted  and  without  the  precious  liquid 
myself,  for  an  accident  had  occurred  to  me  early 
in  the  fight.  I  had  dismounted  when  the  enemy 
opened  fire,  and  stood  by  my  pony — a  rat  of  a 
breast,  but  hardy  enough.  My  English  saddle  was 
rather  large  for  him  and  I  had  sought  to  get  around 
this  difficulty  by  fixing  it  up  with  a  blanket.  When 
the  first  crackle  of  musketry  broke  the  stillness  of 
the  desert  he  became  much  excited,  and  when  the 
enemy  shelled  us  he  began  waltzing  round  so  ener- 
getically that  I  thought  I  had  better  mount  him. 
Whether  the  fatigue  of  the  night  march  or  his 
empty  stomach  was  the  cause  I  do  not  know,  but 
he  appeared  to  be  considerably  shrunk,  for  I  was 
not  seated  an  instant  in  the  saddle  before  the 
whole  gear  slipped  under  the  animal's  belly. 

I  disengaged  my  feet  from  the  stirrups  as  I 
struck  the  desert,  and  my  pony,  tickled  by  the 
saddle  between  his  legs,  reared  and  plunged  like  a 
rocking-horse  till  a  shell  whistled  over  his  head, 
when  he  bolted  at  top  speed  to  the  rear.  It  was 
hopeless  to  follow  him,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he 
carried  my  glasses,  sketch-book  and  water-bottle; 
so  I  resignedly  watched  him  careering  across  the 
desert  till  he  darted  into  the  zone  of  shell-fire,  when 
a  splinter  apparently  knocked  him  over  for  he  fell 
and  did  not  rise  again.  It  was  a  casualty  I  could 
not  dally  to  remedy,  so  with  a  sigh  I  pushed  forward 
toward  the  trenches. 

VOL.   I.— 18  27l 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

As  I  sat  contemplating  the  sad  loss  of  my  water- 
bottle  after  the  fight  was  over,  a  colleague,  who 
was  late  for  the  fray,  came  riding  toward  me  and  in 
a  voice  of  great  glee  said,  "Look,  Villiers,  here's 
a  find."  I  rose  and  faced  him,  all  astonishment. 
"A  rattling  nice  little  beast,  saddle  and  all.  Found 
him  sitting  on  the  desert  about  two  miles  away. 
Well,  why  the  devil  don't  you  congratulate  me?" 

"I  do,"  said  I,  "and  I'm  much  obliged  for  your 
kindness  in  picking  him  up.  That  pony  belongs  to 
me. 


Chapter  XV 

THE    CROWNING    OF   A   TSAR 

Arabi  and  Tezvfik — The  lure  of  Shepherds — The  journalistic  spider  on 
the  stoop — What  comes  into  its  meshes — Two  great  explorers  and  a 
pro-consul — "House  of  Commons"  and  a  pair  of  dukes — Our  fighting 
Prince  of  Wales — Belated  honors — /  am  made  Chevalier — Invited  by 
the  Tsar  to  his  Coronation — My  bluff — A  red-coated  general — /  am 
made  prisoner — My  durance  vile. 

I  WAS  in  Cairo  for  some  months  after  its  occu- 
pation by  the  British  forces,  which  followed 
closely  on  the  heels  of  Tel-el-Kebir,  and  was  at  the 
trial  of  Arabi,  who  had  been  taken  prisoner  and 
was  now  lying  in  jail.  I  rather  admired  him  for 
the  good  fighting  he  had  put  up  and  I  thought  I 
would  ask  him  to  let  me  make  a  water-color  draw- 
ing for  Vanity  Fair.  He  had  no  objection,  so  one 
morning  I  entered  his  cell  with  my  sketch-book. 
He  was  expecting  to  be  shortly  condemned  to 
death  and  was  a  little  nervous,  and  I  could  see  he 
was  very  uneasy  when  I  took  out  my  metal  sketch- 
box.  He  gave  a  sudden  start  and  his  face  turned 
ashen  gray.  Then  he  pulled  himself  together;  in 
fact,  he  straightened  himself  and  fearlessly  faced  me, 
apparently  thinking  I   had   some  new  and   deadly 

273 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

weapon  with  which  I  was  going  to  put  him  out  of 
business  quietly  in  his  prison,  a  method  much  in 
vogue  with  Orientals  when  dealing  with  culprits  of 
Arabi's  caliber.  It  saved  so  much  trouble,  and  all 
that  the  outside  world  generally  knew  of  the  matter 
was  that  the  prisoner  had  had  some  fatal  seizure. 

However,  he  was  much  relieved  when  I  showed 
him  the  colors  and  what  I  was  about  to  do.  I  am 
afraid  I  was  one  of  those  Englishmen  who  had 
considerable  sympathy  with  the  Egyptian  patriot 
and  I  was  pleased  when  his  death  sentence  was 
eventually  commuted  to  banishment.  I  saw  him 
twice  after  this  interview,  both  times  in  Ceylon, 
where  he  was  interned.  Once,  en  route  to  Australia, 
I  landed  and  went  up  to  his  little  bungalow  and  had 
a  chat  with  him  and  a  few  of  his  followers.  At 
another  time,  returning  from  the  Antipodes,  I  arrived 
in  the  harbor  of  Colombo  the  day  he  was  released 
from  banishment.  I  watched  him  go  on  board  the 
transport  with  his  compatriots  and  sail  out  into  the 
Indian  Ocean,  bound  for  his  native  land  once  more, 
and  I  was  glad.  His  prison  in  Cairo  was  in  the 
Caserne,  opposite  the  Abden  Palace  where  his 
arch  enemy,  the  Khedive  Tewfik,  lived. 

The  day  before  I  sketched  Arabi  I  was  invited  by 
His  Highness  the  Khedive  to  the  Palace  to  receive 
the  decoration  of  the  Officers'  Class  of  the  Turkish 
Order  of  the  Medjidie,  with  which  he  personally 
presented  me.  Here  was  the  man  who  a  few 
months    ago   had   been   trembling    in   his   shoes   at 

274 


THE   CROWNING  OF  A    TSAR 

the  prospect  of  Arabi  becoming  "top  dog,"  now 
from  his  front  windows  watching  his  opponent 
safely  bottled  up  in  a  cellar  of  the  barracks  over 
the  way.  Such  was  the  bouleversement  of  affairs  in 
Egypt  in  those  days. 

Hearing  that  General  Sir  Garnet  Wolseley  was 
about  to  leave  for  England,  I  called  to  thank  him 
for  what  he  had  done  for  the  war  correspondents 
during  the  campaign.  Now,  it  was  the  common 
opinion  of  my  confreres  that  he  had  sadly  neglected 
them,  which  Wolseley  well  knew,  so  when  I  wished 
him  good-by,  the  general  slyly  looked  at  me  and 
with  a  smile  acknowledged  he  had  done  very  little 
for  the  press,  but  in  the  next  war  he  would  try  to 
befriend  me.  This  promise  I  kept  fresh  in  my 
memory. 

I  did  not  hurry  from  the  city  of  the  Caliphs, 
there  was  so  much  of  interest  to  be  seen  in  those 
days.  We  had  to  gad  about  on  donkeys  and  camels 
or  in  fiacres;  there  were  no  automobiles  or  street- 
cars, and  of  course  the  principal  hotel  was  the 
historic  Shepherds.  As  I  sat  on  its  stoop,  I  felt 
very  much  like  a  journalistic  spider  in  a  huge  web 
looking  out  for  copy,  so  many  interesting  folk  came 
into  the  meshes  of  this  wonderful  hostelry — from 
gadfly  tourists  to  great  bluebottle  flies  of  com- 
merce and  other  species  of  big-bugs. 

One  day  I  was  lazily  puffing  at  a  cheroot,  stretch- 
ing myself  in  a  lounge  chair,  playing  with  two  bull- 
dogs  belonging   to   Luigi   the    manager,   when   the 

275 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

flies  began  to  arrive  from  the  station.  The  first 
carriage  disgorged  two  occupants;  a  rather  severe 
looking  lady  in  black,  followed  slowly  by  a  man, 
mounted  the  steps  in  stately  manner.  The  man 
halted  half-way  up  to  wipe  the  sweat  from  his  fore- 
head, for  the  weather  was  then  intensely  humid 
in  Cairo.  As  he  raised  his  soft  Alpine  hat  a 
slant  of  sunlight  caught  the  side  of  his  face  and  lit 
up  a  rugged,  deep-set  scar  which  ran  from  below 
the  left  eye  right  down  the  jaw.  The  red  light 
gave  a  remarkable  crimson  hue  to  the  wound,  as  if 
the  cut  had  been  freshly  made.  The  whole  face 
was  stern  and  rather  repellent.  It  was  the  head  of 
a  portrait  I  had  seen  as  a  student  on  the  walls  of 
the  Royal  Academy  which  had  a  magnetic  charm 
for  me;  I  remembered  it  at  once.  "The  Consul  of 
Trieste,"  was  the  title,  and  it  was  painted  by  Sir 
Frederick  Leighton. 

"Excuse  me!"  I  said,  "but  are  you  not  the 
Consul  of  Trieste?"  The  man  looked  at  me  almost 
with  a  scowl  on  his  strong,  rugged  face,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "Who  the  devil  are  you,  sir?" 

"Forgive  me,"  I  continued,  "but  I  was  suddenly 
impelled  to  address  you,  I  can't  tell  why,  but  I 
have  always  been  impressed  by  a  certain  portrait 
painted  by  Leighton  which  appeared  in  the  Acad- 
emy in  my  student  days  called  by  that  title.  I 
felt  certain  that  you  were  the  sitter." 

There  was  a  curious  half-amused  glint  in  his  deep- 
set   eyes   as   he   said,   "My   name's   Burton,   I   was 

276 


THE   CROWNING   OF  A   TSAR 

Consul  of  Trieste,  and  you  are  right  about  the 
portrait."  We  sat  down  and  chatted.  Of  course 
it  all  dawned  on  me;  he  was  the  great  explorer — 
the  hero  of  a  hundred-and-one  marvelous  ad- 
ventures which  had  fascinated  my  youth. 

What  a  charm  of  manner  he  had  in  spite  of  that 
stern,  almost  repulsive,  exterior.  This  was  the  Sir 
Richard  Burton  who  put  before  the  world  the  real 
unvarnished  and  delightful  translation  of  The 
Arabian  Nights  that  made  such  a  stir  in  the  puritani- 
cal world  in  the  'eighties. 

On  the  following  evening  we  were  smoking  with 
other  idlers,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  train,  when 
the  procession  of  fiacres  with  their  dusty  and  weary 
occupants  drove  up.  A  solitary  figure  stepped  out 
of  the  last  carriage.  As  this  man  mounted  the 
steps  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  lit  up  his  face  with 
vividness  exactly  similar  to  Burton's  on  the  pre- 
vious evening.  I  gave  a  start  as  the  clean-cut 
features  and  crisp  beard  stood  out  in  Rembrandt- 
like glow. 

"Look,  Sir  Richard,"  I  whispered,  "this  is  a 
curious  coincidence;  there  is  the  artist  who  painted 
your  portrait."  And  Sir  Frederick  Leighton  passed 
us  and  went  on  into  the  hotel.  The  great  president 
of  the  Royal  Academy  had  come  out  to  make 
sketches  of  lilac  dawn  on  the  Nile  for  one  of  his 
masterpieces. 

It  was  here  on  the  stoop  that  I  met  Mr.  (after- 
ward Sir  Harry)  Johnstone.     He  had  just  arrived 

277 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

from  one  of  his  extraordinary  wanderings  in  Central 
Africa.  Considering  the  ordinary  ravages  of  climate 
and  hardship  of  African  travel  one  would  expect  to 
see  a  sun-baked,  shriveled-up  type  of  individual. 
Instead  of  this  a  dapper,  bright-looking  youth,  with 
rosy  cheeks  and  complexion  like  a  peach  shook  my 
hand.  He  had  been  a  colleague  on  the  Graphic,  the 
pages  of  which  had  been  embellished  with  his 
charming  works  for  years.  Later,  while  he  was 
commander-in-chief  for  the  Uganda  protectorate, 
he  painted  pictures  full  of  tropical  color,  pictures 
before  which  I  have  stood  at  the  Royal  Academy, 
on  a  dark,  dismal  day  in  London,  feeling  that  I 
was  back  again  in  the  full  flood  of  the  light  and 
warmth  of  the  sunny  East. 

Sir  Evelyn  Baring — afterwards  Lord  Cromer — 
used  occasionally  to  walk  up  the  stoop.  My  first 
impression  of  the  maker  of  modern  Egypt  was  that 
he  was  somber  and  pompous,  but  when  off  the 
diplomatic  stage  he  was  affability  itself.  The  first 
reception  when  he  took  up  his  residency  was  most 
stiff  and  formal  and  was  somewhat  resented  by  the 
officers  who  by  hard  fighting  through  a  sweltering 
Egyptian  summer  had  been  the  means  of  creating 
the  raison  d'etre  of  his  office.  The  little  finger  of 
his  right  hand  and  a  haughty  smile  were  the  extent 
of  his  cordiality  as  the  brilliant  queue  filed  past. 
This  reception  was  the  origin  of  the  sobriquet, 
"Sir  Over  Baring."  Later  on  I  was  returning  to 
Egypt  on  board  the  S.  S.  Tanjore,  the  weather  was 

278 


THE  CROWNING  OF  A    TSAR 

abominably  rough  and  there  was  only  one  other 
passenger  beside  myself  who  frequented  the  can- 
vased-in  portion  of  the  deck  that  served  for  smokers. 
My  companion  I  found  to  be  the  late  pro-consul 
of  Egypt.  I  thought  that  he  might  have  re- 
membered my  resenting  his  attitude  at  his  first 
reception  in  Cairo  by  quietly  linking  my  own  little 
finger  in  his;  but  not  a  bit  of  it;  he  was  most  genial, 
and  I  had  many  a  pleasant  evening  with  him  in 
that  abominable  makeshift  of  a  smoking-room. 
A  very  tall,  lean  Velasquez-featured  Scotchman, 
with  a  touch  of  the  heather  about  his  costume, 
came  into  the  hotel  one  day.  I  found  he  repre- 
sented the  "House  of  Commons"  in  the  shape  of 
an  excellent  brand  of  whisky.  He  had  a  very 
charming  personality — bright  and  joyous  as  his  own 
blend — and  we  saw  many  sights  of  the  old  city 
together. 

Some  years  ago  I  was  lecturing  in  the  south  of 
England,  when  I  received  a  letter  from  Mr.,  now 
Sir  James,  Buchannan,  Bart.,  asking  me  to  stay  the 
night  at  his  country-seat  neat  Petworth.  I  remem- 
ber turning  into  a  long  drive  and  approaching  a  pa- 
latial block  of  buildings,  and  as  the  coachman  did 
not  stop  I  asked,  "Where  are  you  driving  to?" 
"The  house,"  said  he,  "these  are  only  the  stables." 

The  "House  of  Commons"  had  built  this  magnifi- 
cent residence  for  my  friend,  and  in  America  he 
would  be  called  a  multi-millionaire. 

His  Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of  Connaught,  a 
279 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

handsome  keen  personality,  would  sometimes  look 
in  at  Shepherds.  I  doubt  if  there  is  a  keener  soldier 
or  an  officer  who  knows  more  about  his  profession 
than  the  duke.  His  great  misfortune  from  a 
soldier's  point  of  view  is  that  he  is  a  prince  of  the 
Royal  House  and  therefore  his  duties  do  not  always 
lie  in  the  direction  of  campaigning.  One  cannot 
help  thinking  that  if  he  had  lived  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
when  it  was  the  acknowledged  business  of  princes 
to  be  famous  in  war,  the  duke  would  have  taken  an 
active  part  in  every  campaign  in  which  his  country 
was  involved,  for  his  heart  and  soul  were  evidently 
in  the  fighting  life  of  the  soldier. 

I  had  met  him  several  times  during  the  cam- 
paign, for  he  was  in  command  of  the  Guards  brigade. 
A  little  fight  at  El  Macfar,  just  before  the  attack 
on  Tel-el-Kebir,  grew  into  a  rather  big  affair,  and 
Sir  Garnet  was  obliged  to  send  for  reinforcements. 
The  Guards  were  ordered  up,  but  before  they 
arrived  the  fighting  was  over  and  I  was  returning 
from  the  action  with  my  budget  of  sketches  to 
Ismalia,  when,  riding  across  the  desert  by  the  side 
of  the  railway  embankment,  I  saw  the  Guards, 
their  faces  all  aglow  with  anticipation  of  the  coming 
fight.  As  they  approached  I  rode  up  the  embank- 
ment, dismounted  a  few  paces  before  the  general, 
and  saluted.  He  asked  me  for  information,  and  I 
told  him  "that  it  was  all  over."  A  look  of  keen 
disappointment  came  into  his  fine  blue  eyes  which 
a  moment  before  were  full  of  eager  expectancy.    As 

280 


THE  CROWNING  OF  A   TSAR 

the  ominous  news  was  passed  down  the  ranks  the 
whole  brigade  seemed  to  lose  its  elasticity,  the 
buoyant  stride  of  the  men  slowed  down  at  once 
into  a  tramp  of  almost  a  funeral  cadence,  as  the 
disappointed  regiments  passed  onward  into  the 
gloom  of  the  gathering  night. 

The  postal  service  in  Egypt  was  in  the  hands  of 
a  contingent  of  the  24th  Middlesex  Volunteers,  a 
regiment  in  which  I  had  the  honor  for  many  years 
of  holding  Her  Majesty's  commission,  of  which  the 
Duke  of  Teck  was  honorary  colonel.  One  morning 
a  few  of  my  men  were  under  quite  a  considerable 
shell-fire:  the  Duke  of  Connaught  happened  to  ride 
into  our  camp  near  Kasassin  shortly  afterward  and 
hearing  of  the  incident  sent  word  to  say  he  would 
like  to  take  tea  with  us,  a  graceful  act  on  his 
part  to  show  his  appreciation  of  our  services  as 
volunteers. 

Our  present  Prince  of  Wales  seems  to  have  a 
fighting  spirit  similar  to  that  of  his  granduncle,  for 
in  the  recent  Great  War  he  has  shown  himself  as 
fearless  and  as  keen  as  our  first  soldier-princes  of 
the  Royal  House,  who,  five  centuries  ago,  fought 
over  the  same  ground,  at  Crecy  and  Agincourt. 

His  grandfather  on  his  mother's  side,  the  Duke 
of  Teck,  also  was  out  in  Egypt.  I  met  him  several 
times  and  he  never  forgot  to  look  after  me  when- 
ever he  could.  I  remember  one  broiling  hot  morn- 
ing standing  in  the  desert  near  the  line  of  rail  by  a 
water-tank  hoping  that  the  next  train  would  stop 

281 


VILLI ERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

to  take  up  water  and  that  I  might  find  something 
to  cheer  the  inner  man. 

I  was  very  tired,  miserable,  and  uncomfortable, 
for  I  had  just  discovered  that  I  had  been  sleeping 
on  the  body  of  a  dead  Arab  and  I  was  still  in  a 
nightmare  of  horrors.  It  had  been  dark  the  night 
before  when,  after  watching  a  skirmish  with  the 
enemy  which  had  lasted  almost  the  whole  day,  I 
threw  my  weary  body  on  the  sand.  The  atmos- 
phere around  me  was  sour  enough,  but  I  was  used 
to  that  and  slept  peacefully  till  the  aroma  so  in- 
creased in  intensity  that  by  the  first  peep  of  day  I 
sat  up  fairly  nauseated  and  looked  round  to  see  if 
there  were  any  carrion  lying  about.  I  dare  not 
describe  the  sight  that  greeted  my  eyes,  but  as  an 
old  friend  of  mine  used  to  say  when  he  tried  to 
express  himself,   "My  dear  boy,  it  was  too  too!" 

The  grateful  snort  of  an  engine  presently  came 
over  the  desert  and  before  long  a  cattle-truck  train 
rattled  along  and  to  my  joy  stopped  at  the  water- 
tank.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  a  familiar 
voice  shouted  from  one  of  the  trucks,  "My  dear 
Villiers,  come  here,"  and  I  saw  the  head  of  my 
colonel  over  the  top  of  a  truck  as  he  hailed  me. 
My  heart  leaped  with  joy,  for  I  knew  wherever  the 
Duke  of  Teck  was  there  were  extra  rations  for  a 
friend.  I  ran  up  to  him  and  he  said,  "Scramble  in 
here,  there's  room,"  and  presently  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  General  Sir  Garnet  Wolseley's  stafF,  reviv- 
ing my  jaded  spirits  with  a  cool  drink. 

282 


THE   CROWNING  OF  A   TSAR 

After  the  campaign  was  over  I  called  to  say 
good-by  to  His  Highness.  "Ah!"  said  he  on  looking 
at  my  tunic,  "How  is  it  you  have  not  got  the 
medal ?"  I  told  him  that  the  government  had  not 
given  them  to  war  correspondents.  "But,"  he  cried 
with  indignation,  "my  servant,  who  polishes  my 
boots — and  that  is  all  he  has  done  in  the  campaign — 
has  the  medal,  and  you  who  have  seen  every  fight 
and  been  in  action  with  the  troops,  have  not  got  it? 
It's  a  shame.  I  will  see  about  it,  my  dear  Villiers, 
you  shall  have  it!"  It  never  came,  but  I  am  certain 
the  good-natured  duke  did  all  he  could  for  me. 

Lord  Wolseley  expressed  the  same  opinion  and 
said,  "If  you  don't  get  the  medal  nothing  can  stop 
you  from  wearing  the  bars  for  the  actions  you  have 
witnessed,  and  in  this  matter  you  have  my  per- 
mission." So  among  the  many  decorations  I  some- 
times wear  there  are  four  silver  bars  on  a  blue  and 
white  ribbon,  but  no  medal.  It  may  come  some 
day;  after  all,  it's  only  thirty-seven  years  ago. 
I  have  not  lost  all  hope,  for  in  the  year  1893,  to  my 
surprise,  the  Serbian  government  presented  me, 
through  their  Minister  in  London,  with  the  medal 
of  the  Chevalier  of  the  order  of  the  Takova.  They 
gave  this  reason  for  awarding  me  the  belated  deco- 
ration: they  had  just  discovered  that,  at  consider- 
able risk  of  life  and  limb,  I  had  saved  a  large  store 
of  ammunition  at  Deligrad  from  going  up  by  the 
burning  of  the  house  in  which  it  had  been  hidden. 

I  searched  my  memory  for  the  incident  and  finally 

283 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

remembered  tearing  off  the  thatched  roof  of  a  house 
in  flames,  with  my  friend  and  colleague  the  late 
Archibald  Forbes,  during  the  Serbian  war  with 
Turkey,  just  seventeen  years  before. 

Probably  in  another  decade  the  British  War  Office, 
if  my  friends  there  are  not  all  dead,  will  wake  up  to 
the  fact  that  I  have  not  yet  got  that  war  medal  of 
thirty-seven  years  ago  and  will  send  it  on — but  I 
wonder  what  my  address  will  be  in  those  days. 

The  Duke  of  Teck's  gallant  son,  the  late  Prince 
Francis,  was  also  familiar  with  the  stoop  at 
Shepherds.  It  was  a  number  of  years  afterward 
that  I  met  him — during  Kitchener's  campaign.  He 
had  all  the  unconventional  bonhomie  of  his  father. 
Finding  that  I  had  lost  some  of  my  kit  coming  up 
the  Nile,  he  kindly  fixed  me  up  with  a  shirt  and  a 
toothbrush.  I  hardly  liked  taking  the  latter  but 
he  assured  me  he  had  others  by  showing  me  a 
dozen  in  celluloid  cases  from  Truefitts.  "It's 
awkward  to  be  without  one,"  he  went  on,  "I  am 
always  provided  for." 

The  garment  which  the  Prince  gave  me  had  the 
ducal  coronet  and  monogram  stitched  upon  it  in  a 
corner.  Later  on  at  a  certain  hotel  the  proprietor 
and  staff  became  suddenly  very  obsequious  in  their 
attitude  toward  me,  and  I  found  at  about  the  same 
time  that  I  had  sent  the  shirt  to  the  laundry.  They 
no  doubt  thought  that  I  was  traveling  incognito, 
and  the  title  of  a  vaudeville  song  sprang  to  my 
mind,  "It  all  comes  out  in  the  wash." 

284 


THE  CROWNING  OF  A   TSAR 

When  I  returned  to  England  after  the  quelling 
of  the  Egyptian  uprising  I  found  an  invitation  to 
the  coronation  of  the  Tsar  Alexander  III,  which 
turned  out  to  be  the  most  gorgeous  pageant  I  ever 
witnessed.  I  had  met  the  Emperor  as  Tsarevitch 
when  with  the  Russian  army  in  Turkey,  but  in 
spite  of  this  I  had  to  be  up  to  all  kinds  of  antics  to 
go  where  I  wanted  after  arriving  in  Moscow.  I 
worked  at  a  great  disadvantage  as  compared  with 
literary  correspondents  who  could  at  times  get 
their  material  at  second  hand.  With  me  I  had  to 
see  the  thing  in  order  to  sketch  it. 

I  wore  the  Windsor  uniform  with  sword  and 
cocked  hat,  and  this,  together  with  my  string  of 
decorations,  which  in  those  days  was  beginning  to 
grow,  assisted  me  considerably.  Only  one  repre- 
sentative of  the  British  press  was  allowed  in  the 
cathedral  in  which  the  Tsar  was  crowned,  but  I 
had  to  get  there  all  the  same.  When  the  great 
bells  were  clanging  and  drums  rolling  as  the  Em- 
peror took  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  procession 
to  march  to  the  church  from  the  Kremlin,  and 
everybody  was  on  the  tiptoe  of  excitement,  I 
began  my  stunt  by  pushing  my  way  through  the 
crowd.  Uniforms  and  decorations  go  a  long  way  to 
impress  people  in  Russia,  and  they  made  way  for 
me  right  up  to  the  close  formation  of  soldiers  guard- 
ing the  Imperial  route.  This  was  the  first  real 
barrier,  but  with  haughty  mien  I  requested  the 
soldiers  to  make  room,  as  I  was  late  for  the  cathe- 

285 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

dral.  To  my  surprise  and  delight  they  opened  out 
without  a  murmur;  then  I  hurried  down  the  crimson 
carpeted  path  to  the  door  of  the  church.  Here  I 
became  reckless,  pushing  aside  one  or  two  officers 
standing  on  the  threshold.  On  seeing  me  flash  by 
they  simply  murmured  to  each  other  "Diplomat" 
and  I  was  in  the  church.  Now  I  did  not  care;  I 
boldly  commenced  sketching.  In  fact  I  had  rushed 
two  or  three  officials  to  pose  for  me  on  the  steps  of 
the  dais,  when  a  chamberlain  came  up  and  asked 
to  see  my  ticket.  But  now  the  fanfare  of  trumpets 
and  the  rolling  of  drums  grew  near  and  the  shouts 
of  the  populace  drowned  all  my  explanation  about 
dropping  my  ticket,  and  I  was  pushed  into  a  corner 
to  be  out  of  the  way,  just  as  His  Imperial  Majesty 
arrived. 

The  same  night  at  the  great  banquet  in  the 
famous  hall  of  St.  George  which  was  reserved  for 
the  Tsar,  his  crowned  guests,  and  the  Ambassadors 
and  diplomatic  corps  only,  I  bluffed  again.  When 
the  fanfare  of  trumpets  heralded  the  arrival  of  the 
Emperor  and  Empress  in  their  jewels  and  gorgeous 
raiment  and  the  glittering  guests  had  seated  them- 
selves, I  hurriedly  walked  in  looking  very  much 
"fussed"  over  being  so  late  and  commenced  stalking 
up  and  down  the  aisles  between  the  tables  looking 
for  my  seat. 

It  was  just  at  the  moment  when  the  first  dishes 
were  being  brought  in  and  I  was  becoming  very 
indignant  at  not  finding  my  seat,  which  of  course 

286 


THE   CROWNING  OF  A    TSAR 

was  never  there,  that  a  splendid  being  in  wonderful 
livery  brought  a  chair  to  appease  my  ruffled  feelings 
as  well  as  my  appetite,  and  I  was  sandwiched  in 
between  two  diplomats  blazing  in  gold  and  deco- 
rations, whom  I  soon  found  to  be  delightful 
company.  When  the  Imperial  couple  with  their 
royal  guests  rose  from  the  table  and  left  the  banquet 
hall  in  stately  procession  to  the  blare  of  trumpets 
there  was  a  rush  of  men  and  women  of  the  smaller 
fry,  such  as  counts,  barons,  generals,  field  marshals, 
and  myself,  to  the  Imperial  board,  where  ensued  a 
melee  between  these  bejeweled  ladies  and  decorated 
gentlemen  for  the  remains  of  the  feast  left  by  the 
Imperial  party. 

I  noticed  a  special  guard  placed  over  the  gold 
plate  and  spoons  and  forks.  Personally,  I  was 
modest  in  my  commandeering;  I  simply  snatched 
from  the  Empress's  bouquet,  which  she  had  left  on 
the  table,  a  handful  of  flowers,  while  the  bouquet 
was  being  torn  in  bits  by  two  noblemen.  Some  of 
us  were  astonished  at  this  behavior  on  the  part  of 
the  guests,  but  I  discovered  that  it  was  a  custom 
from  ancient  times  for  the  retainers  and  the  common 
herd  of  princelets  to  scramble  for  the  broken  food 
left  behind  by  the  Great  White  Tsar  after  any  big 
function. 

After  the  banquet  I  met  Lord  Wolseley,  who 
represented  the  British  army,  and,  during  the  state 
dances  that  ensued,  he  requested  me  to  point  out 
to  him  General  SkobelefF's  sister,  who  was  dancing. 

vol.  i.— 19  287 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

The  Hall  of  St.  George  was  thronged  with  people 
jostling  each  other,  packed  almost  like  sardines,  and 
couples  were  clearing  ground  for  themselves  by 
slowly  waltzing  in  little  circles  in  different  parts  of 
the  room. 

"I  am  told  that  she  is  over  there,"  said  the 
general,  "but  it's  impossible  to  get  through  this 
crowd." 

I  had  noticed  how  a  few  of  the  guests  had 
managed  to  wade  through  the  crush,  so  I  said  to 
him,  "If  you  will  come  with  me  I  will  get  you 
through." 

The  general  was,  of  course,  in  his  full  dress  and 
although  there  was  a  wonderful  variety  of  uniforms, 
many  of  which  were  much  more  gorgeous  than  his, 
they  were  not  of  British  red.  This  brilliant  color 
was  of  great  advantage  to  our  movements. 

"We  will  start  now,"  I  said. 

"Very  well,"  he  replied,  as  he  stiffened  himself 
to  follow.  In  another  moment  the  man  in  front  of 
me  received  my  elbow  in  his  ribs  and  his  body  at 
once  gave  way.  Each  person  standing  in  our  path 
was  treated  in  a  similar  manner,  and  thus  we  ad- 
vanced slowly  but  surely.  There  was  no  growling 
on  the  part  of  those  disturbed,  for  when  I  gave  the 
dig  with  my  elbow,  I  always  apologized  with  a 
smile;  and  they,  seeing  the  smart  red  figure  of  the 
general,  blazing  with  decorations,  gaining  ground 
inch  by  inch,  cried,  "Pardon,  m'sieu!" 

"Very  beautiful;  anything  like  her  brother?" 
288 


THE  CROWNING  OF  A   TSAR 

asked  Wolseley  when  we  were  at  last  on  the  outer 
rim  of  the  circle  of  onlookers. 

"Yes,  a  remarkable  likeness,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  her  brother  was  a  great  soldier;  I  envy 
your  experience  with  him  in  Plevna.  I  should  like 
to  have  seen  him  in  the  field.  Now,  how  shall  we 
get  out  of  this?" 

"The  same  way,  sir,"  I  replied. 

"Then  I  will  do  a  little  elbowing  this  time,  my- 
self," said  the  General. 

While  in  Moscow  I  was  most  generously  treated 
by  the  Imperial  Court;  for  I  was  put  up  at  the 
best  hotel,  a  carriage  and  pair  were  placed  at  my 
service  night  and  day,  and  I  received  a  free  entree  to 
all  the  theaters  and  public  functions.  In  addition, 
a  purse  was  given  me  containing  about  one  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  for  extra  expenses.  Before  I  left 
the  city  Mr.  Heath,  the  English  tutor  to  the  Im- 
perial children,  told  me  that  his  Imperial  master 
and  the  Empress  took  the  greatest  interest  in  the 
upbringing  of  their  children,  and  every  evening  they 
would  be  present  at  the  bedside  of  their  young 
ones  while  they  said  their  prayers.  And  he  told  me, 
what  pleased  me  very  much,  that  the  nursery  was 
practically  papered  with  my  drawings  of  the  dra- 
matic incidents  of  the  Russo-Turkish  war. 

But,  as  I  have  heard  Mr.  Atkins  say,  "Life  is  not 
all  beer  and  skittles."  In  spite  of  all  this  regal 
hospitality  and  being  practically  in  touch  with  the 
Imperial  court,  brushing  up  against  kings,  emperors 

289 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

and  princes  and  possessing  papers  on  which  my 
portrait  with  the  Imperial  stamp  proved  my 
identity,  I  spent  a  week  as  a  prisoner  in  the  fly- 
blown restaurant  of  a  frontier  station  on  the 
mosquito-scourged  river  Pruth,  sleeping  in  two 
chairs,  sometimes  finding  myself  awake  on  one 
because  the  other  was  being  requisitioned  by  in- 
coming passengers,  simply  because  my  ordinary 
passport,  by  a  stupid  but  grave  mistake  of  the  man- 
ager of  the  hotel  in  Moscow,  had  not  been  viseed  by 
the  municipal  police  of  that  city  to  leave  Russia. 
I  spent  six  days  wiring  without  avail  to  the  British 
authorities  in  Petersburgh  and  London,  but  at  last 
my  dear  old  friend  the  British  Consul  of  my  Serbian 
days,  the  late  Sir  William  White,  then  Minister  to 
Rumania,  came  to  my  assistance,  and  I  was  liber- 
ated, with  many  apologies,  and  allowed  to  return  to 
England  via  Bucharest. 


Chapter  XVI 

A   MUMMY   ARMY 

/  meet  Col.  Fred  Burnaby — A  quick  journey — Adventures  on  the  Red  Sea 
littoral — A  ghastly  sight — /  am  nearly  placed  hors -de -combat — 
Hadendowahs  at  home — Baker  Pasha  again — The  charge  of  tlie  ioth 
Hussars — Rum  and  asparagus — Down  with  fever. 

CGYPT  proved  to  be  a  happy  hunting  ground 
"^  for  the  war  correspondents  for  many  years 
after  Arabi's  uprising.  Things  had  hardly  set- 
tled down  with  Arabi  expelled  and  the  Khedive 
Tewfik  placed  once  more  firmly  upon  his  throne 
than  there  was  a  kick-up  in  the  Eastern  Sudan. 
The  Hadendowahs,  ordinarily  a  peaceful  tribe,  were 
up  in  arms  against  their  former  masters,  the  Egyp- 
tians. A  retired  slave  dealer  and  merchant,  Osman 
Digna,  had  stirred  up  trouble  and  succeeded  with 
his  "Fuzzy  Wuzzies"  in  destroying  many  of  the 
Egyptian  garrisons  dominating  the  tribes  on  the 
Red  Sea  littoral.  To  make  matters  worse,  Baker 
Pasha — the  famous  soldier  who  had  fought  the 
great  Russian  General  SkobelefF  in  Turkey  and  was 
now  in  the  Egyptian  service — had  been  defeated 
and  his  fellaheen  troops  had  been  badly  cut  up  in 

attempting  to  relieve  one  of  the  garrisons. 

291 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

One  of  the  quickest  journeys  I  ever  made  to 
reach  the  seat  of  war  on  behalf  of  my  journal  was 
from  London  to  Trinkitat  on  this  occasion.  When 
the  news  reached  England  of  Baker's  ignominious 
defeat  the  paper  I  represented  was  as  vacillating  in 
its  policy  as  the  British  government  was  apt  to  be 
in  those  days  in  dealing  with  Egyptian  difficulties, 
and  deferred  sending  me  out  to  the  Sudan  till  the 
English  troops  were  actually  moving  on  the  enemv. 
The  result  was  that  I  nearly  missed  the  first  fight 
of  that  campaign. 

En  route  to  Brindisi,  I  met  the  late  Mr.  Bennet 
Burleigh  of  the  Daily  Telegraph.  We  were  literally 
in  the  same  boat  regarding  time.  Burleigh,  finding 
we  were  likely  to  arrive  too  late  if  we  depended 
upon  the  ordinary  means  of  travel,  cabled  from 
Brindisi  to  the  canal  authorities  at  Port  Said  asking 
them  to  place  one  of  their  steam  launches  at  our 
service.  As  our  good  old  P.  &  O.  ship  the  Tanjore 
steamed  into  Port  Said,  the  little  canal  boat  was 
ready  for  us  and  came  puffing  and  blowing  along- 
side. 

My  colleague  and  I  hastily  gathered  up  our 
campaigning  gear — which  by-the-bye  was  not 
much,  Burleigh  I  believe  taking  little  more  with 
him  than  a  piece  of  carbolic  soap  and  a  tooth- 
brush— jumped  into  the  boat,  and  before  the 
Tanjore  anchored  to  take  on  coal  we  were  well  on 
our  way  through  the  canal. 

On  nearing  Lake  Timsah  we  ran  into  a  rain- 
292 


A  MUMMY  ARMY 

storm,  but  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  our  little  craft 
kept  continually  being  driven  out  of  her  course  by 
the  violence  of  the  wind  and  occasionally  stuck 
fast  in  a  sand-bank,  the  dawn  found  us  outside 
Suez,  and  before  the  sun  was  well  up  we  had  man- 
aged to  get  a  passage  on  board  the  transport  North- 
umbria.  An  hour  afterwards  we  were  started  on 
our  voyage  to  Suakim. 

This  good  luck  was  followed  by  even  better.  On 
entering  the  harbor  at  Suakim  our  good  ship  was 
signaled  to  make  direct  for  Trinkitat,  the  immediate 
base  of  operations,  and  the  afternoon  of  the  follow- 
ing day  found  us  landing  on  its  beach.  We  dis- 
covered that  the  British  advance-guard  had  already 
moved  off;  next  morning  the  whole  force  followed 
in  the  direction  of  El  Teb. 

To  my  disgust  I  found  that  there  were  no  horses 
to  be  bought  and  no  servants  to  be  found.  My 
only  chance  of  seeing  any  fighting  was  to  trudge  on 
foot  beside  Tommy  Atkins,  which  I  did,  and,  like 
that  warrior,  carried  my  kit  on  my  back. 

A  tropical  rain,  though  the  fall  was  only  for  an 
hour  or  two,  had  deluged  the  usually  marshy  plain 
of  Trinkitat  and  converted  it  into  a  veritable 
slough,  for  as  much  water  falls  on  the  Red  Sea 
littoral  in  that  time  as  falls  in  a  week  of  steady 
downpour  in  a  European  climate.  The  whole 
British  force,  therefore,  which  had  set  out  from 
the  coast  that  morning  under  General  Sir  Gerald 
Grahame    for   the    relief  of  Tokar,    had    to   wade 

293 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

through  a  belt  of  liquid  mud  and  sand.  Splash, 
splash,  through  the  mud,  sometimes  over  the 
ankles  and  occasionally  up  to  the  knees — splash, 
splash  we  went  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  mire. 

"Reeves,  when  is  this  bloomin'  fun  goin'  to  end?" 
said  one  Tommy  Atkins  to  another.  "As  soon  as 
yer  on  terry-firmy  yer  off  ag'in  into  the  slush. 
'Eavens!  we  only  wants  to  meet  the  fuzzy-wuzzy 
and  snipe  shooting  wouldn't  be  in  it!" 

These  two  soldiers,  with  about  a  hundred  others, 
had  placed  their  socks  in  their  boots  and  had  slung 
the  latter  articles  round  their  necks.  Their  trousers 
were  tucked  up  over  the  knees,  and  many  had  slung 
their  rifles  across  their  backs  to  give  their  hands 
more  freedom  in  actively  assisting  the  progress  of 
the  commissariat  wagons  when  the  deep  ruts  in  the 
ooze  of  the  track  caused  the  carts  to  sink  up  to 
their  creaking  axles. 

Afar  off  on  the  desert  we  could  see  that  the 
water  had  subsided,  for  the  advance-guard  of  the 
British  army  was  in  bivouac  on  a  sandy  stretch 
outside  a  mud  fence-work,  called  Fort  Baker.  The 
men  dribbled  into  the  bivouac,  puffed,  blown,  and 
weary  after  the  strain  of  the  toil  across  the  belt  of 
mud.  To  add  to  their  discomfort,  no  sooner  were 
the  fires  burning  briskly,  kettles  boiling,  and  the 
chill  gradually  thawing  out  of  their  weary  limbs, 
than  heavy  clouds  gathered  and  another  down- 
pour deluged  everything,  putting  the  fires  out  as 
quickly  as  an  extinguisher  on  a  burning  rushlight. 

294 


A  MUMMY  ARMY 

We  were  all  drenched  and  lay  soaking  till  morning. 
However,  the  hot  sun  of  the  Sudan,  within  an 
an  hour  after  he  had  shot  up  from  the  horizon, 
scorched  up  every  sign  of  moisture,  and  again 
imparted  suppleness  to  our  stiffened  joints. 

With  the  dawn  the  general's  pacific  envoy,  who 
had  left  the  night  before  with  a  message  of  warning 
to  the  enemy  to  disperse  and  not  obstruct  our 
advance,  returned  with  the  proverbial  "flea  in  his 
ear,"  and  reported  that  the  Arabs  meant  fighting. 
At  8  p.m.  the  simple  breakfast  had  been  eaten 
and  the  order  "Stand  to  arms!"  was  given.  Rifles 
unstacked,  our  little  army  formed  up  in  oblong 
square  and  the  "Advance"  was  sounded. 

Our  cavalry,  consisting  of  the  ioth  and  19th 
Hussars,  moved  slowly  forward  on  the  left  flank  of 
the  square.  As  I  was  not  mounted  I  thought  I 
should  stand  a  better  chance  of  seeing  the  fighting 
if  I  were  outside  the  formation,  since  directly 
firing  commenced  the  force  would  be  enveloped  in 
smoke.  I  therefore  followed  in  rear  of  the  cavalry. 
As  the  ioth  Hussars  moved  off  to  their  position  an 
officer  rode  up  to  me  and  called  out,  "Do  you 
remember  when  we  last  met  in  the  Khyber?"  It 
was  Captain  Slade,  of  the  ioth.  "Look  me  up 
after  the  fight;  we'll  have  a  chat  over  old  times." 
And  he  laughingly  rode  away. 

I  never  spoke  to  him  again.  His  life's  blood 
was  dyeing  the  colorless  sand  of  the  deser-  oefore 
the  sun  was  down  that  day.     He  fell  tr,ing  to  save 

295 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

a  comrade,  Lieutenant  Probyn,  who  had  been  un- 
horsed, and  was  trying  alone  to  hold  three  of  the 
enemy  at  bay.  This  gallant  action  was  just  like 
poor  Slade,  who  was  always  generous  and  self- 
sacrificing. 

An  hour's  march  brought  us  in  touch  with  the 
enemy.  They  soon  opened  fire  on  our  left  at  long 
range.  Presently,  from  the  direction  of  the  coast, 
the  shriek  of  shells  became  audible,  and  I  observed 
H.  M.  S.  Sphinx,  in  the  Trinkitat  roadstead,  trying 
to  cover  our  left  flank  by  shelling  the  enemy.  The 
range  was  too  great,  however,  and  the  result  was 
as  little  damaging  to  the  Arabs  as  was  their  rifle  fire  to 
us.  In  fact,  the  shells  from  the  Sphinx  much  in- 
convenienced our  own  cavalry;  one  projectile  burst 
so  close  that  our  troopers  were  obliged  to  scatter 
for  a  time. 

Marching,  as  if  on  an  Aldershot  field-day,  over 
undulating  sandy  country,  the  square  moved 
briskly  to  the  weird  screech  of  the  bagpipes  and 
took  no  heed  of  the  desultory  shots  of  the  enemy, 
who  gradually  retired  as  our  men  pressed  forward 
toward  the  village  of  El  Teb.  To  me,  the  square 
was  soon  only  a  single  blot  on  the  desert.  Some- 
times, indeed,  a  depression  in  the  ground  com- 
pletely hid  it  from  my  view  and  at  last  I  had  to 
depend  on  the  screel  and  hum  of  the  bagpipes  for 
guidance. 

It  was  now  only  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning, 

but  the  heat  was  intense,  and  at  times  the  atmos- 

296 


A  MUMMY  ARMY 

phere  became  quite  stifling.  Presently  I  detected 
in  the  air  an  odor  which  was  sour  and  sickening  in 
the  extreme  and  in  another  moment  I  had  nearly 
stumbled  over  a  dried-up  corpse.  It  was  a  mere 
mummy.  The  skin  and  flesh  had  shrunk  to  the 
bones.  A  few  yards  farther  on  I  came  across 
several  more  dead  fellaheen,  shriveled  to  parchment 
in  the  dry  atmosphere  of  the  desert.  These  bodies, 
it  was  plain  to  me,  marked  the  route  of  Baker's 
disastrous  retreat,  for  they  all  faced  toward  Trinki- 
tat,  in  the  direction  of  the  coast,  and  were  lying  on 
their  stomachs  exposing  gaping  spear  wounds  just 
below  the  shoulder  blades.  Each  had  been  given 
the  coup-de-grace — a  slit  across  the  throat — by  their 
Hadendowah  foes. 

Even  this  sight  hardly  prepared  me  for  the 
ghastly  one  which  shortly  presented  itself.  There 
were  no  vultures  in  the  air  or  slinking  beasts  of 
prey  to  give  warning,  only  the  sickening,  sour  odor 
of  dried  human  flesh.  Suddenly  I  stood  on  the 
verge  of  a  slight  depression  in  the  desert,  and  in 
the  hollow  in  my  immediate  front  lay  literally 
hundreds  of  glistening  bodies  all  stripped  of  their 
clothing,  their  glassy  skins  shimmering  under  the 
rays  of  the  fierce  sun. 

A  little  in  advance  of  a  group  of  shreds  and 
tatters  of  dried  flesh  and  grinning  skulls  lay  two 
corpses  paler  in  color  than  the  rest.  The  taller  of 
the  two  I  recognized  by  the  color  of  his  beard  and 
by   his   clean-cut    features    as   my   old    friend    and 

297 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

companion  in  Bulgaria,  Dr.  Armand  Leslie.  The 
other  body  was  that  of  Maurice  Bey  who,  with 
young  Forrester  Walker,  had  stubbornly  stuck  to 
his  post  and  had  heroically  died. 

Walker  I  did  not  find.  Poor  boy!  I  remember 
him  after  the  Tel-el-Kebir  campaign  in  '82  kicking 
his  heels  in  Cairo,  harassing  the  government  for 
employment.  While  waiting  for  something  to  turn 
up  he  would  occasionally  amuse  us  with  drawing 
caricatures  of  himself  and  his  future  adventures  in 
the  service  of  the  Khedive.  In  one  of  these  sketches 
he  predicted  his  appointment  to  the  Gyp  artillery, 
the  winning  of  his  spurs  in  a  brush  with  the  Arabs 
and  his  being  decorated  for  his  services;  and  finally 
he  represented  himself  as  captured  by  the  enemy 
and  being  taken  home  by  a  Hadendowah  to  his 
family  on  the  end  of  a  spear.  I  little  thought  then 
how  soon  that  burlesque  would  be  borne  out  in 
veritable  tragedy. 

Handsome  Armand  Leslie  was  my  friend  and 
companion  in  many  a  trying  situation.  Some  seven 
years  previously  we  had  nearly  met  our  death 
together  when  in  Bulgaria  in  a  most  inglorious 
way — by  the  poisoned  fumes  of  a  charcoal  brazier. 
He  had  been  saved  then  only  to  meet  this  end — 
and  where  was  the  glory,  even  now? 

A  chill  seemed  to  pierce  me  through  and  through 
— a  chill  that  even  the  scorching,  blasting  heat  of 
the  noonday  sun  could  not  dispel.  I  was  for  a 
short  time  spellbound     with  the  gloom  and  horror 

298 


A  MUMMY  ARMY 

of  my  surroundings  when  the  sound  of  distant 
cannon  aroused  me.  Our  work  had  begun,  and  we 
were  now  about  to  avenge  the  death  of  those  heroic 
Englishmen  and  that  sad  remnant  of  Baker  Pasha's 
army  which  lay  rotting  on  the  desert.  I  hastened 
in  the  direction  of  the  square. 

As  I  gained  the  crest  of  the  reeking  hollow,  I 
saw  that  a  shell  had  just  burst  in  the  rear  of  our 
square.  Then  another  exploded  in  front,  tumbling 
over  several  of  our  men.  Up  till  now  we  had  kept 
steadily  moving  in  the  direction  of  El  Teb  without 
firing  a  shot.  When  within  about  a  thousand 
yards  of  the  Arab  position  we  came  to  a  halt  and 
opened  with  our  screw-guns.  So  well-aimed  was 
their  fire  that  they  seemed  at  once  to  cause  the 
enemy's  musketry  to  slacken. 

The  bugles  sounded  the  "advance"  and  our  men 
stepped  forward,  steadily  firing  at  the  Arab  sharp- 
shooters, who  quickly  sought  cover  behind  their 
intrenchments  and  a  large  mud  fort  in  front  of  the 
village.  In  another  moment  our  front  became 
entangled  in  a  veritable  hornet's  nest  of  the  enemy. 
From  out  of  unnumerable  pits  as  intricate  as  those 
of  a  rabbit  warren,  black  fuzzy  heads  popped  up; 
then  the  muzzle  of  a  rifle  gleamed  for  a  moment  in 
the  sunlight,  there  was  a  puff",  the  whiz  of  a  bullet, 
and  the  head  disappeared. 

No  wonder,  when  the  order  was  given  to  charge 
the  trenches,  the  front  face  of  our  square  lagged  a 
little,  for  the  occupant  of  each  pit  had  to  be  dealt 

299 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

with  individually  and  many  who  had  feigned  death 
became  troublesome  customers  to  those  of  us  who 
were  too  eager  to  reach  our  objective,  for  these 
"dead  men"  bounded  out  of  their  pits  and  charged 
our  men  with  their  spears  and  knives. 

From  the  embrasure  of  the  mud  fort  a  Krupp 
field-piece  occasionally  belched  a  yellow  flame  and 
a  shell  shrieked  its  way  over  our  heads  to  find  a 
billet  in  the  desert  beyond.  Looming  through  the 
smoke  we  saw  suddenly  a  gaunt  figure  appear  upon 
the  parapet,  with  the  terai  hat  on  his  head  silhouetted 
against  the  gray  cloud  from  the  cannon. 

"See!  there's  Burnaby,  sir,"  cried  a  man  who 
was  limping  with  a  hole  in  his  sock  and  a  bit  of 
good  flesh  torn  away.  "Ain't  he  a-givin'  them 
beans." 

The  gallant  colonel  was  unattached  and  had  come 
out  for  the  fun  of  the  thing.  He  had  topped  the 
parapet  and  certainly  seemed  to  be  doing  some 
remarkable  execution  among  the  Arabs  with  his 
shotgun.  Three  natives  protecting  the  Krupp  gun 
rushed  at  him,  but  he  calmly  plugged  into  them 
with  his  left  and  right.  The  first  charge  of  buck- 
shot at  close  quarters  knocked  the  one  clean  off"  his 
feet;  the  other  two,  staggering  with  the  sting  of 
the  pellets,  were  subsequently  bayoneted  by  some 
of  the  Highlanders  following  closely  on  Burnaby's 
heels.  Before  the  captured  field-gun  had  fairly 
recoiled  from  its  last  discharge  at  us,  Major  Turner 
of  the  Marines  was  repeating  an  operation  which 

300 


A  MUMMY  ARMY 

he  had  performed  at  Tel-el-Kebir,  blazing  away  at 
the  retreating  enemy  with  their  own  shot  and  shell 
which  they  had  left  behind  them.  Now  was  the 
time  for  the  cavalry  to  do  its  work,  and  the  ioth  and 
19th  Hussars  were  accordingly  ordered  to  charge 
the  broken  enemy.  But  though  the  Arabs  were 
beaten  there  was  little  running  way  in  their  retreat. 
When  they  were  followed  too  closely  they  turned 
and  fought  again. 

I  happened  to  be  standing  by  a  mounted  officer 
in  Egyptian  uniform.  Two  keen  gray  eyes  sparkled 
with  excitement  from  between  the  bloody  folds  of 
a  towel  which  had  been  hastily  bandaged  round  his 
head,  as  they  eagerly  followed  the  movements  of 
the  cavalry.  I  looked  more  closely  and  found  the 
wounded  man  to  be  Baker  Pasha.  He  had  passed 
through  many  vicissitudes  since  I  had  arranged  his 
memorable  meeting  with  Skobeleff  in  the  club  at 
Constantinople,  for  he  was  now  in  the  Khedivial 
service,  and  all  his  wonderful  personality  and 
success  as  a  leader  could  not  bring  the  sweepings  of 
Egyptian  jails  and  the  cowardly  fellaheen  troops  to 
make  a  decent  stand  against  the  Hadendowahs. 
The  great  Pasha's  glory  had  been  almost  ex- 
tinguished by  the  disastrous  defeat  for  which  this 
square  of  British  troops  had  been  sent  out  to  exact 
retribution. 

Baker  was  now  engaged  only  as  intelligence 
officer.  I  did  not  at  first  recognize  him  in  his  tar- 
boosh with  his  blood-soaked  headgear. 

301 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

"I  hope  you  are  not  badly  hurt,"  I  said  as  I 
grasped  his  hand  in  sudden  recognition. 

"No,  my  dear  Villiers,  not  seriously  hurt,"  and  for 
a  moment  tears  seemed  to  stand  in  his  eyes,  as  his 
hand  trembled  in  mine. 

"Look!     Look  at  my  old  regiment  charging!" 

The  troopers  of  the  ioth,  their  swords  gleaming 
in  the  sun  from  out  the  whirling  eddy  of  dust,  were 
bearing  down  on  the  scattered  bodies  of  retreating 
Arabs. 

"That's  it!  Let  them  have  it,"  he  cried.  "See 
how  the  boys  go  through  the — " 

Here  he  was  rather  incoherent,  for  his  wound 
began  to  bleed  afresh.  Not  heeding  the  ruddy 
drops  rapidly  pattering  down  his  dusty  tunic  he 
still  held  my  hand,  and  when  the  melee  was  at  its 
height  he  clenched  it  as  if  he  were  firmly  gripping 
a  weapon.  He  had  led  that  regiment  a  score  of 
times  when  playing  at  war  at  Aldershot — but  here, 
when  his  troopers  were  in  action,  he  was  denied  the 
privilege  of  leading  them. 

Backward  and  forward  the  cavalry  charged,  but 
still  the  enemy  was  not  flurried;  they  stood  their 
ground  and  gave  battle.  Some  rolled  under  the 
horses'  bellies  and  cut  and  slashed  with  their  two- 
handed  swords,  ham-stringing  several  animals  and 
bringing  their  riders  to  the  ground.  Those  of  ours 
who  thus  fell  never  rose  again.  It  was  in  this 
fight  poor  Slade  and  Probyn  met  their  death. 

Lancers  would  have  done  more  execution,  for  the 
302 


A  MUMMY  ARMY 

sabers  of  the  Hussars  were  not  long  enough  to  give 
the  Arabs  a  quietus  when  they  threw  themselves 
under  the  horses.  At  last,  out  of  sheer  weariness, 
the  enemy  made  off  and  the  field  was  left  to  the 
British  troops. 

The  scene  after  the  fight  was  ghastly  enough, 
especially  round  a  square  brick  building  which  we 
found  was  intended  for  a  boiler-house.  With  great 
surprise,  we  gazed  upon  this  curious  relic  of  Western 
civilization  in  this  savage  spot.  Near  it  an  old 
iron  boiler  lay  rusting  on  the  desert — one  of  the 
follies  of  Ismail  Pasha  in  the  course  of  his  efforts 
to  open  up  the  Sudan  and  establish  industry. 

Civilization  had  gone  to  the  wall  since  those 
days.  Round  the  emblem  of  a  peaceful  industry, 
barbarism  in  its  crudest  mood  was  seen.  The  old 
iron  cylinder  had  been  used  by  the  enemy  for  a 
breastwork,  and  here  the  Arabs  had  made  a  bold 
stand.  Dead  bodies  were  so  heaped  up  on  one  side 
of  it  that  it  no  longer  offered  any  cover. 

On  the  top  of  this  ghastly  pile  was  an  Arab  lad 
lying  doubled  up,  his  head  between  his  legs.  I 
prepared  to  sketch  the  weird  group,  and  two  soldiers 
near  by  were  picking  up  some  speais  and  shields  for 
trophies  when  suddenly  the  lad  sprang  into  the  air 
and,  flourishing  a  broad  knife,  bounded  at  us.  At 
first  I  was  bewildered  by  the  onslaught,  but  soon 
finding  that  the  boy  was  very  much  alive  and  meant 
mischief,  I  beat  a  hasty  retreat  until  I  was  able  to 
draw  my  revolver.     The  two  soldiers  seized  their 

vol.  i.— 20  3°3 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

rifles  and  followed  my  example.  The  boy  at  times 
came  so  close  on  our  heels  that  we  could  hear  the 
rush  of  the  knife  in  the  air  as  he  cut  at  and  missed  us. 

Just  as  I  felt  the  warm  flush  of  his  breath  on  my 
neck,  my  companion  on  the  right  turned  and  shot 
the  lad  dead  before  I  could  pull  the  trigger,  and  he 
fell  a  quivering  mass  at  my  feet.  He  was  still 
clenching  the  knife — a  short  blade  twisted  like  a 
corkscrew.  The  fanatical  glare  was  still  in  his  eyes 
and  the  peculiar  cry  of  an  Arab  when'  he  strikes 
seemed  yet  lingering  on  his  parted  lips.  It  was  a 
piteous  thing  to  be  compelled  to  kill  so  brave  a  lad. 
Indeed  it  was  always  the  saddest  phase  of  Arab 
fighting  that  no  quarter  could  be  either  given  or 
taken.  After  this  little  incident  I  was  for  safety's 
sake  obliged  to  cover  with  my  revolver  every 
apparently  dead  body  I  came  across. 

We  bivouacked  on  the  battlefield  that  night  with 
the  dead  and  the  dying  for  our  companions.  When 
the  stars  came  out  and  the  heavy  breathing  of  the 
slumbering  soldiers  and  low  whimperings  of  the 
wounded  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night,  one  sorrow- 
ing little  voice  was  distinctly  heard  above  the 
snore  of  the  sleeping  soldiers — the  bleatings  of  a 
lamb  that  had  lost  its  mother  and  was  now  held 
as  a  mascot  by  a  stalwart  Highlander,  who  had 
fallen  asleep  with  the  little  animal  in  his  arms. 

Before  sundown  Major  Cholmondeley  Turner  of 
the  Egyptian  army  had  pluckily  volunteered  to 
return  to  Fort  Baker  for  rum  rations  for  the  men. 

304 


A  MUMMY  ARMY 

It  was  a  hazardous  service,  for  no  one  was  safe 
outside  the  British  lines.  Turner  was  now  overdue 
and  we  were  becoming  rather  anxious  about  him. 
Toward  midnight  a  large  fire  was  lighted  as  a 
beacon  to  guide  the  belated  convoy  into  camp.  A 
heavy  dew  fell  over  the  desert,  which  chilled  me 
through  and  through.  I  could  not  lie  down,  for 
the  ground  was  as  wet  as  sand  between  the  tides, 
so  I  kept  pacing  back  and  forth  before  the  glowing 
embers  of  the  beacon. 

I  was  hungry  and  weary,  for  I  had  not  tasted  food 
since  early  morning,  yet  I  was  loath  to  ask  any  of 
the  company  officers  for  food,  since  they  had  only 
short  rations  themselves. 

Therefore  I  thought  I  might  make  an  appeal  to 
Major  Turner  when  he  arrived,  for  I  had  been  of  some 
service  to  him  during  the  day  in  keeping  his  water 
convoy  from  stampeding  during  the  fight. 

Presently  the  grousing  of  camels  stole  over  the 
plain,  and  soon  the  gurgle  and  swish  of  the  liquor 
barrels  were  distinctly  heard  and  a  ghostly  line  of 
"baggies"  (baggage  camels)  glided  past  the  fire. 

On  seeing  me,  Turner  at  once  offered  me  a  tot  of 
rum.  I  was  about  to  ask  him  for  something  to  eat, 
but  my  nerve  failed  me.  However,  the  spirit  gave 
me  courage  and  I  hit  upon  a  plan  to  approach  him 
tactfully  on  the  matter.  I  had  a  number  of  excellent 
cigars  with  me.  I  handed  him  one,  for  which  he 
seemed  most  grateful.  He  immediately  lit  it  with  a 
burned  ember  from  the  fire,  and  passed  the  stick  to  me. 

30S 


VILHERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

"No,  thanks,"  said  I. 

"Don't  you  smoke?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  I  replied;  "but  not  now;  I  should  be 
ill.     I  have  not  eaten  since  dawn." 

"Great  Scott!"  he  cried,  "that's  twenty-four 
hours  ago.  You  must  be  starving.  Here,  boy, 
bring  my  saddle-bag."  After  probing  its  depths,  he 
laughingly  said,  "I  have  not  much  to  offer  you — 
only  a  tin  of  French  asparagus.     Let  us  share  it." 

I  found  that  rum  and  asparagus  were  not  bad 
things  in  a  way,  even  if  taken  together;  but,  in 
spite  of  Turner's  hospitality,  I  also  discovered  that 
short  rations  and  a  damp  desert  do  not  go  so  well 
together.  I  was  down  with  fever  next  morning, 
and  was  taken  back  to  the  coast  on  the  tail-board 
of  an  ambulance  cart — which  put  an  end  to  my 
campaigning  for  a  time. 


Chapter  XVII 

THE    FUZZY   WUZZY 

A  brush  with  Osman  Digna — A  friend  in  need — A  welcome  ration — ■ 
The  sleeping  army — The  awakening— Rallying  groups — My  uncertain 
horse — The  fight  in  Kipling's  "The  Light  That  Failed" — The 
"Fuzzics"  break  ihe  British  square— My  friendly  Highlander. 

RECOVERED  from  my  attack  of  fever  just 
*■  in  time  to  see  a  brush  with  Osman  Digna  and 
to  be  in  the  fight  depicted  by  Rudyard  Kipling  in 
The  Light  That  Failed. 

"I  say,  sir,  don't  you  think  you  had  better  lie 
down?  Here,  you  are  just  in  the  line  of  the  lead," 
said  a  stalwart  man  of  the  Black  Watch  as  I  walked 
up  to  some  Highlanders  lying  perdu  in  a  breast- 
work of  sand. 

I  had  been  peering  through  the  gloaming,  trying 
to  make  out  the  distance  of  the  little  spurts  of 
flame  flickering  in  the  direction  of  the  foothills  in 
our  immediate  front,  when  this  friendly  corporal  of 
the  42d  touched  my  shoulder  and  suggested 
that  I  should  seek  cover  behind  the  curtain  of 
sand  where  the  front  face  of  our  square  was  lying. 
There  was  not  much  to  get  behind  in  the  wretched 

307 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

position  in  which  the  British  force  found  itself  be- 
fore Tamai  on  that  night. 

We  had  been  marching  from  Baker's  zereba  from 
shortly  after  noon  till  sundown  over  a  scorching, 
stony  plain,  studded  here  and  there  with  cactus 
and  mimosa  bush.  We  had  advanced  into  the. 
jaws  of  the  enemy  and  were  now  bivouacked  on  a 
sandy  patch  between  the  outlying  foothills  on  one 
hand  and  the  base  of  a  chain  of  rugged  volcanic 
mountains  which  ran  parallel  to  the  whole  length 
of  the  Red  Sea  littoral  on  the  other.  The  scouts  of 
the  enemy  were  already  in  sight  on  the  low  black 
rocks  of  granite  and  syenite  in  our  front.  Splashes 
of  light  were  flickering  like  flecks  of  fire  in  a  distant 
hamlet  when  the  sinking  sun  lights  up  its  window- 
panes.  But  no  such  suggestion  of  peace  was  in 
those  reflections  from  the  hills.  The  broad  barbs 
of  the  spears  of  Osman  Digna's  warriors  gave  out 
the  light,  blood-red  with  the  rays  of  the  dying  sun, 
as  if  already  reeking  with  gore. 

Presently  these  shafts  of  fire  seemed  to  turn  to 
silver  in  the  light  of  the  moon  and  flickered  here  and 
there  all  about  us  as  the  "  fuzzy-wuzzy "  warriors 
began  to  skirmish  in  our  direction.  Springing 
lightly  over  the  scrub,  they  wriggled  along  on  their 
stomachs,  seeking  every  little  bit  of  cover.  Before 
long  the  Arabs  began  to  show  up  in  considerable 
force,  but  not  wishing  to  court  an  attack  till  the 
morrow,  the  general  ordered  our  mountain  guns 
to  open  fire  and  disperse  them.     A  few  beautifully 

308 


THE  FUZZY  WUZZY 

placed  shrapnel  shells  checked  their  advance  and 
knocked  the  devil  out  of  the  tribesmen  for  the 
night,  so  that  we  were  eventually  left  in  peace  to 
cook  our  rations. 

Mimosa  bushes  were  cut  down  and  a  zereba  was 
formed  of  the  thorny  branches  around  our  position 
to  stop  any  sudden  inrush  by  the  enemy.  Our  men 
ate  their  suppers,  smoked  their  pipes,  and  soon, 
rolling  themselves  up  in  their  blankets,  sought 
slumber.  The  seeking  was  not  long  with  Mr. 
Atkins:  soon  the  simmering,  gurgling,  fretful  pulsa- 
tions of  a  sleeping  army  were  heard  on  all  sides. 

I  was  not  well-pleased  with  our  position  that 
night:  to  me  it  seem  excessively  insecure.  On  our 
right  flank  was  a  mass  of  rock  a  few  hundred  yards 
distant,  for  some  extraordinary  reason  not  occupied 
by  us.  In  our  front,  not  more  than  a  thousand 
yards  away,  were  some  six  thousand  of  the  most 
daring  fighting  men  in  the  world,  lying  perdu  in  a 
network  of  rocks  and  kho'rs.  We  lay  out  in  the  open 
on  a  plain  slightly  shelving  upward  toward  the 
enemy,  an  excellent  target  to  any  Arabs  bold  enough 
to  creep  round  our  flank  and  occupy  that  mass  of 
rock  unsecured  by  us.  I  had  already  planned  in 
my  mind  the  attack  which  the  Arabs  might  make — 
a  galling  fire  in  the  middle  of  the  night  from  the 
ominous-looking  rocks,  while  a  few  thousand  spear- 
men attempted  to  rush  our  zereba — and  then  there 
would  be  the  devil  to  pay.  I  kept  my  revolver 
ready  to  hand. 

309 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

More  and  more  that  unoccupied  rock  bothered 
my  sleep.  It  seemed  to  change  into  a  mountain 
that  grew  bigger  and  bigger  till  the  whole  adjacent 
ground  was  rilled  with  its  immensity.  Suddenly 
I  found  myself  very  unmistakably  awake.  The 
simmering  mass  of  humanity  around  me  was  also 
on  its  feet  and  very  wide-awake.  The  whole  force, 
with  the  low  growl  of  expletives  peculiar  to  Tommy 
Atkins  when  disturbed  of  his  slumber,  was  struggling 
to  fix  bayonets.  A  sharp  rattle  of  musketry  from 
the  foothills,  the  hum  of  bullets  overhead,  and  a 
distant  beating  of  war-drums  were  the  causes  of 
Tommy's  sudden  awakening.  I  looked  anxiously 
toward  the  mass  of  rock;  it  was  still  unoccupied, 
but,  so  far,  we  were  safe. 

We  stood  to  our  arms  for  several  hours;  it  was  a 
desultory  fight,  all  on  one  side,  for  we  never  re- 
turned a  shot.  Like  summer  rain,  pit-a-pat  the 
enemy's  fire  fell,  now  dying  away  to  a  few  sprinkling 
shots  and  again  waxing  to  a  brisk  shower  of  bullets. 
It  was  a  very  uncomfortable  situation,  for  motion- 
less troops  are  always  uneasy,  when  a  sharp  cry 
here  or  a  groan  there  tells  that  bullets  are  finding 
their  mark. 

An  inanimate  form  was  carried  past  me  by  two 
comrades  toward  the  red  lamp  marking  the  doctor's 
quarters.  Here  and  there  a  sharp  clatter  wTould 
signify  that  a  bullet  had  struck  a  mess  tin  or  com- 
missariat box.  In  the  middle  of  the  square  a  horse, 
which  had  been  shot  in  the  withers,  lay  struggling 

310 


THE  FUZZY  WUZZY 

vainly  trying  to  gain  his  feet.  Pit-a-pat!  pit-a-pat! 
the  bullets  kept  falling  and  stirring  up  little  puffs 
of  dust  on  the  open  ground  in  front  of  the  zereba. 

"There  is  no  dashed  fun  in  this  sort  of  fighting," 
Tommy  growled,  "When  will  that  blooming  sun 
come  up  and  show  us  where  to  shoot?" 

I  had  at  the  moment  walked  up  to  the  front  face 
of  the  square,  where  my  corporal  friend  already 
quoted  had  manifested  his  solicitude  for  my  safety. 
Corporal  Dunbar — for  that  I  found  to  be  his  name — 
had  now  mysteriously  disappeared.  There  was  no 
one  else  of  a  communicative  turn  of  mind  near  me, 
for,  in  spite  of  the  occasional  twang  of  a  bullet,  the 
men  were  sullenly  dozing.  I  sprawled  on  the  sand 
and  looked  up  at  the  stars.  They  were  growing 
fainter  and  fainter.  Now  Venus  grew  pale,  then 
the  Great  Bear  faded,  then  Orion  gradually  waned 
and  died  out  in  the  lilac  dawn.  I  was  wondering 
how  many  of  us  would  be  looking  on  those  stars  as 
another  dawn  melted  them  into  space,  when  a  tall 
gaunt  figure,  carrying  something  under  his  great- 
coat, strode  between  me  and  the  brightness  of  the 
coming  day.  Then  it  stooped  down  and  whis- 
pered; "Would  ye  like  a  wee  drap  o'  rum,  sir?" 
It  was  my  good  friend  the  Scottish  corporal  once 
more. 

"Dinna  be  feart,  sir,"  he  continued.  "Tak'  a  sup. 
Thae  Fuzzy  Wuzzies  hae  spoilt  the  taste  o'  rum 
for  at  least  two  or  three  of  us,  so  it's  all  right.  They 
won't  miss  it.     Drink!"     I  took  a  long  pull  at  the 

3U 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

flask;    it  at  once  drove  the  chill  of  the  night  from 
my  veins  and  braced  me  up  for  the  coming  struggle. 

"My  good  friend,"  said  I  to  the  corporal,  "let 
me  do  something  in  return.  Come  and  see  me  at 
the  home  of  Levi,  the  famous  'Jew  merchant  of 
Suakim,'  and  we  will  have  more  than  Passover 
cakes.  Or  better,  look  me  up  in  London  if  we  get 
out  of  this." 

The  sun  came  up  at  last.  The  enemy's  sharp- 
shooters slunk  back  into  the  purple  shadows  of  the 
khor  like  bats  to  their  crannies,  as  the  glorious 
day  burst  upon  us.  Now,  left  in  peace  for  a  time, 
our  men  prepared  their  breakfasts,  then  folded  their 
overcoats  and  made  ready  for  the  coming  fray. 

From  Baker's  zereba  came  our  cavalry,  right 
into  the  eye  of  the  sun.  The  handsome  face  of 
their  gallant  leader,  Herbert  Stewart,  radiant  with 
the  spirit  of  war  upon  it,  glowed  in  the  morning 
light.  At  8.30  we  moved  out  from  the  zereba  toward 
the  enemy,  our  two  brigades  in  echelon,  the  second 
under  General  Davis  in  front,  the  first  under  Buller 
about  700  yards  in  rear.  I  was  watching  Buller's 
square  forming  up  when  the  sound  of  rapid  firing 
was  heard  in  the  direction  of  Davis'  square.  The 
correspondent  of  the  Times  and  I  resolved  to  see 
what  was  going  on  at  the  front,  so  we  mounted  and 
rode  toward  the  leading  brigade.  The  front  face 
and  part  of  the  right  flank  had  been  charged  by  a 
strong  force  of  the  enemy,  which  had  sprung  out 
of  a  deep  nullah  about  a  hundred  yards  away. 

312 


THE  FUZZY  WVZZY 

I  rode  up  behind  the  65th  just  as  their  flank  was 
being  broken.  Our  advance  had  been  suddenly- 
arrested,  like  a  great  wave  striking  a  boulder,  and 
the  Arabs  having  captured  all  the  guns  on  our 
front  face  were  now  pressing  their  attack  on  our 
flanks.  In  a  wild  charge  they  drove  through  a  gap 
at  the  angle  between  the  42d  and  the  right  face 
of  the  65th,  hurling  that  regiment  back  upon  the 
Marines,  who  were  hurrying  up  to  its  support. 

The  Fuzzies  came  bounding  in  before  the  Marines 
could  close  up  their  ranks.  Some  say  the  men  of 
the  65th  gave  way;  if  they  did,  it  was  done  slowly 
and  reluctantly.  To  me  they  seemed  to  be  moving 
backward  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  Marines  and 
to  preserve  the  square  formation,  for  several  men 
coolly  knelt  and  deliberately  took  aim  at  the  Fuzzy 
Wuzzies  enveloping  our  flank. 

But  even  British  pluck  must  fail  sometimes,  and 
that  nullah  held  too  many  of  those  bounding, 
reckless  dare-devil  fanatics  for  any  man  to  face. 
Nothing  could  stop  them  for  the  time — neither 
Gatlings,  Gardners,  Martini-Henrys,  nor  the  cold 
steel.  They  forced  their  way  into  the  square  and 
there  they  stayed  for  a  time.  Though  a  short  period, 
it  was  long  enough  to  teach  Mr.  Atkins  some  respect 
for  the  fighting  qualities  of  the  Hadendowahs.  Un- 
less a  bullet  smashed  a  skull  or  pierced  a  heart  they 
came  on  furiously,  and  even  when  the  paralysis  of 
death  stole  over  them,  in  their  last  convulsions  they 
would  try  to  cut,  stab,  or  even  bite. 

313 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIFE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

Among  the  mob  of  fanatics  came  even  little 
boys  brandishing  sticks,  led  on  by  their  parents  to 
the  very  muzzles  of  our  rifles.  When  they  were 
once  in  our  square  an  absolute  melee  ensued.  Here 
and  there  groups  of  our  men  tried  to  stand  their 
ground,  but  slowly  and  surely  we  were  making  a 
retrograde  movement:  we  were  getting  the  worst 
of  it.  Enveloped  in  smoke  we  could  hardly  dis- 
tinguish friend  from  foe. 

For  a  moment  or  two  firing  ceased,  and  then  an 
appalling  silence  reigned,  as  a  deadly  hand-to-hand 
conflict  of  stabbing,  cutting,  and  scuffling  com- 
menced, in  which  both  sides  were  too  intent  to  give 
tongue.  Only  an  occasional  rallying  shout  from 
an  officer  was  heard,  and  at  one  period,  when  things 
looked  very  badly  indeed,  I  heard  the  voice  of  that 
plucky  war  correspondent,  Bennet  Burleigh,  shout- 
ing: "Give  it  to  the  beggars!  Let  'em  have  it 
boys!  Hurrah!   Three  cheers — hurrah!" 

Many  a  man  who  feared  the  day  lost  rallied  on 
that  lusty  cheer,  and  thought  things  must  be  im- 
proving, and  fought  all  the  better  for  that  belief. 
A  certain  general  has  called  war  correspondents 
"the  drones  of  the  army."  A  few  more  drones  like 
Burleigh  when  Tommy  Atkins  is  in  a  tight  corner 
would  not  be  detrimental  to  the  success  of  the 
British  army  in  the  field. 

How  I  got  out  of  that  fight  I  hardly  know  to  this 
day.  A  great  source  of  anxiety  to  me  was  my 
horse.     This  animal  was  the  only  one  I  could  pro- 

3H 


THE  FUZZY  WUZZY 

cure  at  Suakim  and  had  been  condemned  by  the 
military  authorities  as  unsound.  Still,  he  could 
stand  on  his  four  legs  and  move,  so  to  me  he  was 
better  than  nothing,  for  I  had  been  down  for  many 
days  with  fever  and  was  not  strong  enough  to 
tramp  it;  but  in  an  unlooked-for  emergency  such 
as  this  he  gave  me  grave  anxiety.  Knowing  his 
weak  points,  I  was  always  speculating  as  to  what 
the  brute  would  do  next  as  I  struggled  through  the 
human  debris  of  the  broken  square. 

Once  or  twice,  as  I  lay  flat  along  the  animal's 
back  urging  him  onward  with  my  spurs,  Arabs 
would  leap  out  at  me  from  the  smoke  and  poise 
their  spears  ready  to  strike;  but  they  refrained 
risking  a  thrust  at  one  who  was  moving  so  swiftly 
when  there  were  easier  targets  nearer  to  hand.  I 
fired  my  revolver  at  any  dusky  form  I  saw  emerg- 
ing from  the  smoke;  but  still  the  figures  flitted. 
The  regulation  revolver  is  not  much  use  against 
Fuzzy  Wuzzy;  he  seems  to  swallow  bullets  and 
comes  up  smiling.  If  my  horse  had  gone  lame  or 
played  circus  tricks  in  the  fracas  a  blanket  and  a 
narrow  hole  in  the  sand  would  have  been  my  cover- 
let and  resting  place  that  night. 

However,  Buller's  intact  square,  moving  up  over 
the  ground  we  had  left,  diverted  the  attention  of 
the  enemy  and  gave  us  a  chance  to  rally  and  re- 
form. Then  we  advanced  in  line  and  recaptured 
our  guns.  This  was  the  turning  point  of  the  battle. 
Their  numbers  decimated  by  point-blank   rifle    and 

315 


VILLIERS:  HIS  FIVE  DECADES  OF  ADVENTURE 

gun-fire,  the  Fuzzies  melted  away,  and  soon  the 
few  survivors  were  being  pursued  across  the  hot 
sands  by  our  avenging  cavalry.  But  they  had 
succeeded  in  breaking  a  British  square. 

On  my  return  to  England  after  the  fight  I  read 
in  my  morning  paper:  "For  exceptional  bravery 
in  the  field,  Sergeant-Major  Dunbar  to  receive  Her 
Majesty's  Commission." 

I  drank  Lietenant  Dunbar's  health  and  wished 
him  further  promotion.  Later  on  I  was  quietly 
painting  in  my  studio  when  a  sharp  ring  at  the  bell 
brought  me  to  the  door.  On  the  threshold  was  a 
smart  Bond  Street  type  of  gentleman  in  frock  coat 
and  enameled  boots,  with  an  orchid  in  his  button- 
hole. He  raised  his  hat  and  said,  with  a  suspicion 
of  a  slight  drawl  in  his  speech,  "Why,  don't  you 
know  me,  Mr.  Villiers?" 

I  was  fairly  staggered  for  the  moment;  then  the 
memory  of  him  flashed  on  me. 

"Come  in,"  said  I,  "and  sit  down.  Have  a 
cigar  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

"I  have  no  time  for  that  just  now.  I  have  come 
simply  to  ask  you  for  the  service  you  promised  me." 

"Right!    Fire  away,  Mr.  Dunbar." 

"The  fact  is,  Villiers,"  he  slightly  hesitated,  "I 
am — eh — I  am  going  to  be  married  tomorrow,  and 
I  want  you  for  best  man." 

END    OF    VOLUME    I 


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